


Forgetting You

by Crossover_Chick



Series: The Forgotten Vows Verse [4]
Category: Alice: Madness Returns, American McGee's Alice, Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: British swearing, Falling In Love, Implied Underage Sex, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Swearing, Triggers, Weapons, Wonderland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 185,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Chick/pseuds/Crossover_Chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice's Wonderland is calling her back to help save it (and by extension, herself) from a new threat. Victor's trying to keep an eye on her in the real world while dealing with his growing feelings for her. And Dr. Bumby. . .well, if he has his way. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Most Upsetting Session

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:32 P.M.

_It was – peaceful._

_That was what surprised Alice the most. Granted, she knew she'd left Wonderland in a better state when she'd abandoned it along with the asylum almost a year ago (slaughtering a tyrant who'd literally grown into the earth would do that), but – she'd never really expected it to be peaceful again. Too much had happened during her long, painful trip to destroy the Queen – too much misery, too much suffering, and far, far too much death. And this latest plunge into the depths of her subconscious hadn't started off any differently. First the Hatter had lured her to his rotting tea table in the bowels of his tick-tocking domain, only to surreptitiously attempt to slice her in two once she was in her seat. Her mind's efforts to escape that scene had led her to Heart Palace, where the Queen had directed wave after wave of vicious Card Guards to tear her to pieces even as the building collapsed into fiery rubble around their ears. And then when she'd tried to run from_ that _, she'd found herself trapped somewhere even worse – the memories of her past. Strange and horrible figures had loomed above her, calling for doctors and asking if she'd live; her precious family home had stood engulfed in flames as her charred family waved their final goodbye to their lost daughter; and then the Jabberwock had clawed his way out of the wreckage, crushing her parents and sister underfoot while his buck-toothed jaw opened wide to either swallow her whole or roast her alive. . .all that had saved her then was Dr. Bumby's insistence that she "discard that delusion" and "go to Wonderland." And with immense reluctance, she had, although she'd expected nothing less than a descent into the deepest pits of Hell as a result._

_But now. . .the sun was shining, the air calm. Majestic trees spread their multicolored leaves over the gently-rolling emerald slopes around her, shading the river on which she floated. Beneath her lily pad boat, the bright blue water flowed steadily onward, without a single ripple or splash from a poison-spitting Snark. Above her head, cotton-ball clouds drifted lazily through the azure sky, unmarred by Mechanical Ladybugs toting exploding acorns or Boojums ready to unleash their terrible shriek. Behind her was blessed peace and quiet, with nothing to send her nerves tingling and her fingers reaching for her knife. And before her, clutching a cup of tea in one paw and consulting the pocket watch dangling from beneath his scarlet coat with the other, was Rabbit. Alice felt a smile spread across her face as she picked up her own teacup from blanket spread across the bottom of the boat. Her old friend was still too thin and ragged for her liking, but she was glad to see him nonetheless. It had been much too long._

_Dr. Bumby's voice echoed down from the sky, as it was wont to do during these moments. "Now, Alice – where are you?"_

_"I'm sailing," Alice replied, delicately sipping her tea. "With a friend." A strange little butterfly with a bolt's nut for a body buzzed her nose, making her giggle. Now_ this _was the Wonderland she remembered from her childhood."It's different, somehow," she continued, gazing around the landscape again. Nothing but serenity as far as the eye could see. Maybe Wonderland really_ had _managed to recover in full from the Red Queen's taint – and without any interference needed from her. Excellent. "Things have changed."_

_"Change is good," Dr. Bumby said, sounding as pleased as Alice felt. "It's the first link in the chain of forgetting. Shall we move on to the second?"_

_The word "yes" was right on the tip of her tongue – when Rabbit chose that moment to start twitching. Alice stared, cup halfway to her lips, as her friend's head jerked up and down, one eye quivering in its socket as his teeth rattled in his jaw. An unpleasant coldness began creeping into her guts. Oh no – was this where it all went wrong again? But she hadn't even gotten the chance to finish her tea! "What's happening?" she asked him, not sure if she wanted an answer or not. "Are – are you mad?"_

_"I'm not mad," Bumby protested, but Alice didn't pay any heed. Her attention was fixed on the blood now dripping from Rabbit's neck, a steady flow of crimson that contrasted sharply with his white fur. "Rabbit!" she cried, dropping her teacup to reach for him. "What's hurt you? Is something wrong?" The memory of him falling victim to Hatter's oversized foot invaded her thoughts – was that the reason for this sudden horror?_ No, no, he can't die again – think him better think him better –

_Rabbit's twitchy eye abruptly popped, leaving a bare socket to stare back at her. "Something wrong?" he repeated, his voice echoing and strange. "Raaaatherrrr!"_

_And then, with no warning, his head exploded into a shower of blood and black slime. Alice threw up her hands, trying in vain to protect her face from the fountain of gore. Behind them, she could see the landscape rotting around her – the grass withering from healthy green to kindling grey, the trees crisping from earthy brown to burnt black, the sky fading from cheery blue to the bright yellow-orange of a freshly-lit_ fire – _"Oh no," she moaned, the coldness spreading up through her limbs."Not that!"_

 _"Don't struggle, Alice – let the new Wonderland emerge," Bumby counseled, but he couldn't_ see _this, couldn't see the water transform to pitch-black_ ooze _, the bone-white china faces lurch up from the bottom in huge boat-swallowing waves, the tiny porcelain fingers reach out to drag her and what was left of her still-twitching friend into the depths (she'd never been afraid of dolls before, but she definitely was now). . .and still that terrible gunk spurting from Rabbit's neck, coating her exposed flesh and burning burning_ burning _– "Pollution – corruption – it's – it's killing me! Wonderland is destroyed! My mind is in ruins!" she shrieked, desperate for relief, for rescue, for_ something _–_

 _"Forget it, Alice. Block that dream!" Bumby commanded, and she would have been more grateful if he'd said that_ before _those cold, slippery fingers started_ ripping off her face _. "Wake at the sound."_

_But it was too late, far too late as Rabbit might have said if he'd still been blessed with a head. The hands had shredded every last bit of her skin, leaving her brain and muscles and guts exposed as they dragged her down, down, down into the infinite blackness. . . . A last terrified scream escaped her lips as her head sank beneath the waves. . . ._

And then, blessedly, there was a snap, and the darkness changed to merely that behind her eyelids.

Alice took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reacquainting herself with the feel of the scratchy old fainting couch beneath her. Part of her wanted to leap from her spot and run away as fast as she could, away from any lingering ooze, but she forced herself to stay put, lest she make a spectacle of herself attempting to flee from her own brain. Besides, she didn't feel in any condition to move yet. Maybe in a few years she'd be ready to get up.

"There, Alice. Better now, aren't we?"

Alice wondered what exactly Dr. Bumby's definition of "better" was. "My head's exploded and there's a steam hammer in my chest," she groused, sitting up and pressing a hand against her forehead. God, did every session on this couch have to end with her feeling miserable?

Dr. Bumby had the sense to pretend to be embarrassed, at least. "Yes, well, the cost of forgetting is high."

Always with his stupid platitudes. Alice was in no mood for trite, useless words – not after what she'd just been through. "My memories make me vomit," she snapped, her brain bringing up a plethora of images she'd attempted to repress. Rabbit's frail frame smashed flat under Hatter's foot. . .Cheshire's neck spurting blood while his head bounced away into a far corner. . .the Queen of Hearts revealed to have under her masses of twisted flesh Alice's own face, and the mocking speech that had followed. . .her family home being consumed by flame while she could only watch in horror. All still vividly, depressingly clear despite almost a year in therapy. The cost of forgetting might be high, but the cost of remembering seemed higher still. "What can I–"

"Remember other things," Dr. Bumby interrupted, wandering apparently aimlessly to the window behind her.

As if it were that easy! "I want to forget!" Alice almost yelled. She _hated_ feeling like this – vulnerable, fragile, _mad_. She'd won her freedom from Rutledge – she should also be free of the guilt, the pain, the deep-down ache in her heart! Besides, what other things could she remember that weren't equally as horrible? "Who would choose to be alone, imprisoned by their broken memories?"

"I'll set you free, Alice," Dr. Bumby assured her, finally deigning to notice her suffering. "Memory is a curse more often than a blessing."

Alice barely resisted rolling her eyes. "So you've said. Many times. And–"

" _And_ I will say again," Dr. Bumby snapped, sitting down across from her and fixing her with a stern look, "the past _must_ be paid for. You won't get results if you won't do the work, Alice!" He collected himself and continued in a milder tone. "Now, before our next session, collect your pills from our High Street chemist."

Ugh, pills. Alice hated pills. But she recognized a dismissal when she heard it. "Very well, doctor."

Pushing herself off the couch, she headed for the door, eager to leave this office and its misery behind. To her mild surprise, the office seemed just as eager to be rid of her – the moment her fingers touched the knob, the door popped open. Charlie proved to be the culprit behind this mysterious event, waiting on the other side. "It's my turn to forget, Alice!" he told her as he waltzed past, looking much too cheerful for someone about to undergo therapy with Dr. Bumby.

Alice felt a pang as the boy made himself comfortable on the couch. Poor Charlie – he was the orphan she got along with best, possibly because his history was almost as tragic as hers: a mother who'd beat him, and a father who'd gotten himself hung trying to defend his son. She couldn't blame him for wanting to forget that. _Just hope he has an easier time of it than me,_ she thought, closing the door behind her as Bumby pulled out the key on the end of his watch chain – his usual hypnotizing instrument – to start the session. "That's right, Charlie," she heard him say through the wood, voice fading as she walked away, "just watch it go back and forth. . . ."

The upstairs hall of the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth was filled with toys, games, and children, as usual. A group lingering by the bend looked up as she approached. "What's wrong now?" one boy demanded with a suspicious frown.

"Can't find the door," Alice replied absently, eying the stairs at the far end of the hall. Hmmm. She knew her orders. And she knew how annoyed Dr. Bumby would be if she bucked them. She ought to just go to the chemist's and get it over with. That's what any non-madwoman would do. So instead she turned and walked into the boys' room, seeking distractions. If Dr. Bumby asked, she was checking up on the children. That was her job, wasn't it? To check up on the children?

There were two boys inside the communal bedroom– perpetual resident Reggie, perched on his top bunk, and relative newcomer Dennis, sitting in the corner. "The loo smells awful!" Reggie complained the instant she stepped inside, fixing her with a scowl.

"Worse than your room?" Alice asked, wrinkling her nose at the stench of wee that never quite left. What was it with these little ones and wetting the bed? "I don't know what you expect _me_ to do about it even if it does. I'm no plumber." She turned her attention to the other boy. "How are you, Dennis?"

"Ollie pinched me smalls," Dennis replied, glowering.

Oh hell, Ollie was still doing that? Well, Alice wasn't going to be the one who asked him what he wanted with his friends' underwear. "Wear bloomers," she suggested with a slight smirk. Dennis merely grumbled in response.

Despite these complaints, the boys seemed to be all right, so Alice continued on to the girls' room. There was only one child in residence this time – young Elsie, doodling some rather cruel-looking stick figures in a patch of sunlight. "Doctor do you right?" she asked as Alice entered, not even bothering to look up. "Still sick in the head? Or did he actually cure you this time?"

"I'm past a cure," Alice half-joked, grimacing as she noticed that the goldfish the girls had talked Dr. Bumby into getting was floating upside-down in its bowl. Great – she'd have to dispose of that later. "Terminal condition."

Elsie hummed a quiet agreement and kept drawing. Alice left her to it and jogged back out into the hall. That was probably all the dillydallying she could get away with – time to complete her chores before a certain someone made a fuss. Abigail, standing by a hopscotch board chalked on the floor (lovely, another thing to clean), gave her a wicked smile as she passed. "Wasting doctor's time?"

"I deserve my bitter tears," Alice replied with a glare. "Want some?"

Abigail wisely fell silent. _Brats, the lot of them,_ Alice thought as she reluctantly descended to the first floor. _Dr. Bumby's treatments seem to make them forget their manners along with everything else. Really, Doctor, you need to learn when to_ stop _waving that key in front of their eyes. Keep on like you're are and eventually there'll be nothing left in their heads._

She glanced at the luggage tucked away behind the stairs – these orphans had more things than she did – then allowed herself a moment to examine the copy of _The_ _Illustrated_ _London News_ lying on the nearby endtable.  Fire at Match Factory, read the top headline. Six Girls Missing. Alice shook her head at the picture of the burnt-out remains. _Is there anything more predictable? The world's gone quite mad._

Leaving the paper and rounding the corner, she encountered two more new children, boy and girl, deep in conversation. "Ten years in the looney bin, I heard," the girl said, not noticing the topic of their discussion had appeared on the scene.

"No ma, no relations – she's an orphan," her companion nodded.

"How exactly does that make me different from either of you?" Alice asked, arching an eyebrow at the two.

"Orphans are supposed to be little!" the girl said, frowning up at her. "You're too old not to have a ma!"

"If only," Alice murmured, looking away. "Don't you have better things to do than stand here and gossip?" The pair shook their heads. "Shouldn't have asked. All right, just keep out of trouble." She continued on to her room, leaving them to giggle and trade more rumors behind her.

Her tiny patch of real estate was the same as it ever was – uncomfortable bed, rotting dresser, rickety shelves, lopsided cupboard, peeling wallpaper, and a leaky umbrella shoved in the corner. Alice sighed as she retrieved her spending money from its hiding place beneath her mattress. This was what passed for home these days. _Enough to make one wonder why I_ bothered _leaving Rutledge,_ she thought, biting her lip as she gazed at the picture of her family on the near wall. The days of living in a loving, well-kept home seemed so far away. . . .

A knock behind her caught her attention. Alice turned around – and smiled, genuinely, for the first time that day. "Hello, Victor."

"Hello," Victor Van Dort – her neighbor, best friend, and the only good company for miles – replied, stepping over the threshold. "What had you so deep in thought, if I may ask?"

Alice spread her arms to encompass her living space. "Back in Oxford, a man named Mr. Payne often preached to us children about the joys of the simple life," she said, recalling the afternoons spent bored out of her mind in the fellow's company. "He really had no idea how humble a home could be. If not for my drawings and the photograph, this could pass for my room at the asylum."

Victor grimaced. "Really?"

"Well, all right, you'd have to take away the cupboard and dresser. And cover the walls with padded white fabric," Alice allowed. "But it's close enough to." She turned in a slow circle, rubbing her arm. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but – it's been almost a year, and I still feel out of place."

Victor nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel. My room here has never felt like home either." He smiled and motioned toward the forest of paper tacked up around her bed. "Still, it's not all bad. You've amassed a lovely art collection."

"I have, haven't I?" Alice agreed, walking toward it. "But let's be fair – what I've amassed is a rather childish art collection–" She waved a hand to indicate all her various scribblings "– and a few rare beautiful pieces." She tapped a certain ink drawing of herself in battle with an Army Ant, shooting her friend a grin. "Courtesy of a most talented artist."

Victor blushed and fussed with his tie. "Well, you give me quite a lot of inspiration," he returned. "And for what it's worth, I like your drawings. The sketch you made me for my birthday was beautiful."

"Yes – the only time I've been able to draw well in this godforsaken place. Be honored." Alice glanced back at the door. "Unfortunately, I can't linger here and discuss art with you all day. Dr. Bumby wants me to go collect my latest round of pills from the chemist."

"Oh, I see." Victor frowned, lips pressed into a disapproving line. "This has to be the third new medication he's tried you on. Are they helping at all?"

"Eh – mostly they just taste bad," Alice said, making a face. "They certainly don't stop me from seeing things." She shrugged. "Then again, it's only been a fortnight. And some things _have_ gotten fuzzier, I think. Although nothing I _want_ to get fuzzy." Her gaze fell to her feet. "I can still hear their screams at night."

Victor stepped forward and put his arm around her. "I'm sorry. I wish I could do something to help you."

Alice rested her head against his shoulder. "Victor, you do enough by just being here." Then, laughing, she added, "Even though I know quite well you'd like to be anywhere _other_ than here."

"Right now I would," Victor admitted with a soft groan. "Dr. Bumby told me after lunch I would have a session with him around four."

Alice patted his hand. "And I'm sure you're very eager to go up there and be told to forget the nicest afterlife I've ever heard of," she said, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Oh yes, I can't wait," Victor replied, matching her tone perfectly. She was quite proud of that, to be honest. "I wish he'd just leave me alone. It's been–" His brow furrowed as he did the mental calculations. "Goodness, almost five months! Have I really been here that long?"

"You must, unless I've been hallucinating you," Alice informed him. "Which is always a possibility, granted." She took his hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry you've been stuck here that long, but we both know Bumby's a stubborn bastard. With the money he's getting from your parents, he's not going to give up on you anytime soon. I bet he thinks you'll break any day now."

Victor shook his head. "Maybe. I'm inclined to believe he's getting a bit desperate. His methods have gotten steadily more aggressive over the past couple of weeks." He looked at her, concern written all over his face. "Speaking of which, you've just had your session, haven't you? How did it go?"

Alice winced. "Horrible. Dodging death, reliving the Queen's tyranny, watching my family burn – and just when I thought I'd gone somewhere safe, I'm attacked by black sludge and porcelain dolls."

"Dolls?" Victor blinked a few times. "Well, the lazy eye on Elsie's favorite is a little disconcerting, I suppose. . . ."

This was why she liked Victor – he always knew how to make her smile. "I agree. Fortunately for me, that one's made out of cheap bakelite. I doubt it could even think about ripping my face off without breaking its fingers."

Victor stared. "Rip your – your imagination just does _not_ like you, does it Alice?"

"It hasn't liked me for years," Alice said, remembering a screaming plunge down a hole of shifting colors and the painful thud into the Village of the Doomed. God, it felt like only yesterday. . . . "And the feeling is mutual, as you well know. Maybe one day my brain and I will come to a truce, but not today." She shook her head and pulled away from him. "Anyway, I should go get those pills. Don't want our dearest doctor to have another grumpy moment and threaten to dock my pay again."

"Certainly not," Victor agreed. "I'll see you later, Alice. Have a good trip."

"Good luck with your session," Alice replied. "Don't let him bully you too much."

"I haven't yet," Victor said, giving her a rather cheeky grin.

Alice returned it. "Damn straight. So don't start now." Giving him a final wave, she headed for the front foyer.

Said room was in greater disrepair than usual – the orphans had been busy scattering cards and books over every available surface. Alice made a note to round up a few to help her clean when she got back. There was a group of four currently present, gathered around the dollhouse. They glanced up as she passed and began murmuring to each other. "Doctor's pet!"

"Too good for the asylum!"

"Mad as a hatter, without the charm."

"Killed her family!"

"Who'd want her?"

"Only the necrophiliac."

"One day he's going to have enough of that word and join me in stuffing you all in a closet," Alice informed them archly. They ignored her, going back to their play. Alice rolled her eyes. _Wasn't even worth bothering them about,_ she thought as she pulled open the front door. _After so much time hearing variations on those themes, Victor and I should be immune to such comments. Just makes me sick to hear them going on about that still. . . ._

The world outside proved to be surprisingly nice – a rare sunny day, with air clear enough to actually look blue instead of grey. It gave Alice's spirits a much-needed lift. "Another day – a different dream, perhaps?" she wondered, jogging down the steps and through the front gate. It seemed unlikely, but you never knew. After all, she hadn't yet seen anything that wasn't supposed to be there today. That was progress, wasn't it? And she'd be back in time to see Victor again before his session. Perhaps they could have tea together, or play a game, or share more stories of Wonderland and the Land of the Dead. Maybe they'd even get the chance to take a short walk before supper. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe, despite that rotten session, today could still be a good day.

She had no idea how wrong she was.


	2. A Most Frustrating Session

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:18 P.M.

_There was so much_ color _._

_That was what had always amazed Victor most about the Land of the Dead. It was the complete inversion of what one expected. Life implied color, and death dreariness – after all, one didn't go to a funeral in anything other than black, and almost everyone he knew considered the cloudiest, greyest days as the most appropriate mourning weather. And yet, for practically all his life, the most prominent colors he'd seen Upstairs were off-whites, faded greys, and washed-out blacks, with the occasional touch of crusty brown or pale blue for variety. While Downstairs. . . ._

_Victor slowly walked around the pub, taking in the scenery with an appreciative eye. The brick foundation, redder than any rose, popped against the eggshell-colored walls. Dusty bottles stacked haphazardly on crooked coffin-shaped shelves glowed with vibrant pinks, yellows, and blues. Grass-green and bruise-purple light from the hanging lamps tinted walls, furniture, and skin curious shades as they battled for supremacy. Even the battered, worm-eaten brown of the bartop and the deep black of the shadows lurking in the corners of the room seemed more alive than their counterparts Above. It was as if all the color in the living world had been leeched away through the soil, trickling down until it landed in rainbow splatters on the Land of the Dead._ You could have left some for us, _Victor thought, though with no real rancor. He was certain the Dead appreciated the color a lot more than the Living ever would._

_"Where are you?"_

_Dr. Bumby's voice echoed around the room, filling every nook and cranny. Victor frowned. He hated that – hated the way the words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It made him feel like he was a pet in a cage, or a figure in a dollhouse – small and insignificant, utterly at the whim of some force greater than himself. He got enough of_ that _every time he received another scolding letter from home. Couldn't he have at least the illusion of choice here?_

_Still, it wouldn't do to ignore the doctor. "The Ball & Socket," he replied, brushing his fingers along the frayed pink cushioning atop the coffin piano. Some tiny part of him recognized that it was just the memory of a touch, that none of this was real, that it would all fade into oblivion when Dr. Bumby snapped his fingers. But Victor ignored that part. The majority of his mind bought into the illusion. And he was enjoying visiting the pub again, reliving cherished memories and getting a break from the London gloom. Best not to spoil it with reality._

_"Is anyone else there?"_

_Victor glanced left and right. The main room was empty of people, but he could see light spilling out of the doorway to the kitchen. He went and peered over the undersized doors. Inside the little room stood three people he knew well – Mrs. Plum, the motherly head cook; Bonejangles, skeletal singer extraordinaire; and Emily, his sweet corpse bride. The three of them were talking and laughing as Mrs. Plum stirred the contents of a huge black cauldron. Not even the smell of rotting flesh emanating from the pot could stop a fond smile from spreading across Victor's face. "Some of my friends are in the kitchen. Bonejangles, Mrs. Plum, and Emily. I think they're about to have lunch."_

_"No, they're not."_

_Victor frowned, puzzled. What was Dr. Bumby talking about? "Yes, they are. I can see them."_

_"That doesn't matter. They're not there. The Ball & Socket is not there. None of what you claim to see exists, Victor. You made it all up during an unfortunate psychotic episode."_

_Oh. This again. The puzzlement faded, but the frown remained. "I did not," Victor replied, folding his arms. "They're real. All of this is real."_

_"It is not real. It is a delusion that was brought on by your fear of getting married. Don't you remember? You were practicing your vows in the woods. You were alone, rejected by your peers, banished until you could get things right. You were nervous, worried, afraid. At the height of your distress, you saw a root in the shape of a gnarled hand sticking out of the ground. And because it was dark, because you were already not thinking clearly, you imagined it was one."_

_"I didn't need to imagine anything, sir. It_ was _a hand," Victor said firmly, a flicker of irritation coloring his words. As usual, Dr. Bumby was bound and determined to convince him that the very place he'd_ specifically asked _Victor to go to didn't actually exist. That it was all a mere hallucination, despite how real everything felt. Why did Dr. Bumby want him in the Ball & Socket if the psychiatrist was just going to deny that there _was _a Ball & Socket? Was it really so important to Bumby that the pub dissolve away before his eyes?_

 _The worst part, however, was that sometimes – Victor was tempted to let it. Every so often, he found himself wondering if it was really worth fighting Dr. Bumby's therapy. It didn't happen during every session, and it never lasted long. But sometimes, in the middle of particularly intense appointments – the kind that left him with a throbbing headache afterward – his resolve to remember would weaken. He knew it would be easier to just go along with the suggestions, let his memories be erased so he could leave this wretched place at last. And the way Dr. Bumby talked – so confident, so_ sure _of himself, in a way Victor had never quite been even after nearly taking a sword to the vitals – it was frighteningly simple to agree with him that the Land Below was some sort of fantastic dream he'd had. Something that needed to be discarded so he could get on with the business of living._

_But Bumby could never get him to wonder for more than a moment. There were things Victor knew deep in his gut – things he could rely on. And one of them was that the Land of the Dead and Emily were real. And that to forget them would be a betrayal of some of the nicest people, and the most unfortunate bride, he'd ever met. He'd stuck it out this long – he could stick it out to the end. "And the Land of the Dead is not a delusion," he continued. "I'm there right now. I can see Mrs. Plum cooking something over the fire. Shall I ask her what it is?"_

_"No," Dr. Bumby replied, and now he sounded a bit peeved. "You are trapped in an unproductive hallucination. There is no Mrs. Plum cooking something over a fire. There is no Mrs. Plum at all. There is_ no _Land of the Dead, Victor. Block it from your mind – forget it! Return to the living world. Return to real people."_

_"These people are real too," Victor protested, glaring up at the ceiling for lack of anywhere better to look. "They may be dead, but they're as real as you or me. I could walk straight into that kitchen and hug any one of them."_

_"Those 'people' are nothing more than imaginary friends conjured up by your fevered imagination during a time of great mental anguish," Dr. Bumby shot back. "They do not exist. They cannot exist. Dead people do not get up and walk!"_

_Victor blinked. While he was used to Dr. Bumby getting angry with him during sessions, there was something different about the doctor's tone of voice this time. He sounded like – like Alice had when she'd first learned about the Land of the Dead. Victor felt a sudden wave of sympathy for the psychiatrist. Had he lost someone he loved long ago too? Did he feel like Alice once had – that Victor's stories reopened old wounds that had never quite healed? "Doctor, are you all right?"_

_There was a moment of silence. "You did not see any form of afterlife," Dr. Bumby finally said, calm and composed once more. "You did not speak with any of the dead. You did not do the impossible, Victor Van Dort. When you saw that 'hand' in the woods, you suffered an unfortunate psychotic episode that led to you hallucinating walking corpses while your pain-filled mind tried to work through its issues regarding commitment. And," he added, tone turning just a touch vindictive, "judging by your descriptions of this 'corpse bride,' some latent necrophilia."_

That _got Victor well and truly angry. "I do_ not _have necrophilia! I would never v-violate one of the dead like that!" he yelled, balling his fists. "What happened is that I woke up a murdered bride by inadvertently proposing to her!"_

_"What happened is that you went mad from stress!" Dr. Bumby snapped. "No one else admits they saw the living dead, now do they?"_

_"I caught her murderer, didn't I?" Victor returned, playing his one and only trump card. "No one claims Lord Barkis didn't exist!"_

_"An auspicious coincidence, Master Van Dort! They happen from time to time. You probably based the image of your 'bride' on childhood stories of the missing girl. It was sheer dumb luck that her murderer returned to town when he did. And while we're all grateful that you managed to frighten a ruthless killer into accidentally killing himself, it is time to let the past go! Forget this insanity, Victor! Emily was not real – at least, not when you claim to have met her! Your insistence on holding onto this ridiculous fantasy is keeping you from achieving your true destiny!"_

_Victor, on the verge of snarling back something along the lines of 'you haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,' stopped and blinked a few times. Huh? What was the doctor going on about now? "True destiny?" he repeated, confused._

_"Everyone has a purpose, Victor. Yours is_ not _to spend the rest of your life wallowing in fake memories of an afterlife no rational person would conceive of! Nor is it to believe in undead brides that masquerade as tree roots!" The doctor's voice softened, becoming sweet as honey. "All she's doing is causing you pain, Victor. Ruining your reputation and making it impossible to interact with normal people. Wouldn't it be nicer to reject her and reclaim your life?"_

_Victor shook his head."No. I loved that poor girl, Dr. Bumby. I nearly died for her. I'm not going to erase her from my mind."_

_"You must!" Dr. Bumby insisted, abandoning soft words. "What you want does not matter anymore! You_ will _forget! And you_ will _return to the living world!"_

_Victor scowled at the rafters. "Well, if you insist, I can at least do the latter."_

_"Oh?"_

_"Yes. Just let me go to Elder Gutknecht's tower so he can cast the Ukrainian Haunting Spell." The little part of him that knew this was all a mixture of memories and imagination protested that he was being mean, but Victor couldn't bring himself to care. Dr. Bumby was getting on his nerves. Every session was the same bloody thing, and he was tired of it. He was allowed to wind the doctor up every once in a while._

_There was a brief silence, then a distinctly disgusted sigh. "That won't be necessary," Dr. Bumby replied. "You will wake – now." There was the sound of fingers snapping –_

And then Victor opened his eyes in Dr. Bumby's office, thrown back into the world of dullness and brown. He stared at the ceiling, letting himself readjust to reality. In the Land of the Living; lying on an uncomfortable old couch in the middle of Whitechapel; and receiving therapy that he very much did not need from someone he very much did not like. _How depressing. I'm almost tempted to ask Dr. Bumby to rehypnotize me just so I can escape back to the Ball & Socket._

"It is frankly disturbing how little you care for your own well-being, Victor."

Victor sighed as he sat up. And now this old song-and-dance again. He'd thought things could get samey back in Burtonsville, but that was nothing compared to his sessions with Dr. Angus Bumby. "I think I'm a better person for remembering Emily and the Land of the Dead – sir," he added quickly. No sense in antagonizing his jailer with rudeness.

"You're a better person for clinging to delusions and hallucinations?" Dr. Bumby asked as he leaned back in his chair, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"I used to be terrified of death, Dr. Bumby. Now I hardly fear it at all. And I believe I respect life more too." How could he not, after seeing the pain someone had gone through upon having theirs ripped away from them? Even with the lack of color and excitement in the Land of the Living, Victor knew Emily would have given anything to stay Upstairs. To become a wife and mother, to experience sunshine and happy days with a man she loved. That was the whole reason she'd made her vow, after all. The Land of the Dead was full of wonders, friendship, and fun, but Victor had realized that there were some things – blooming flowers, fresh apples, the simple touch of someone's skin against yours – that you could only properly experience as a breather. And he intended to take full advantage of them. If only for Emily's sake.

"Yes, of course you do. That perfectly explains your suicidal leanings," Dr. Bumby shot back, glaring at Victor over steepled fingers.

"I've only attempted that o-once!" Victor protested. _Well – that you know of,_ he added in his head, feeling a faint pang of guilt. But there was no way in this world or the next that he was going to tell Dr. Bumby about the _first_ incident. He couldn't afford to give the psychiatrist any more firepower in his campaign against his mind. "And only because I thought I could help someone else by doing so! I have no urge to try again now!"

"Do you? Do you really? You've never described the Land of the Dead in anything less than glowing terms. And you seem quite dissatisfied with your life as it currently is." Dr. Bumby's expression softened into something almost paternal. "I worry that one day I'm going to open your door only to find you lying in a puddle of your own blood or hanging from the ceiling by a rope of your ties. I don't want to have to tell your parents that I failed you completely." He stood up, placing a hand on Victor's shoulder. "Let me help you, Victor. Let me clear your mind of those painful and unproductive thoughts that insist on clouding it. There's a whole world out there you could be experiencing. Full of interesting, friendly, _living_ people. Even living women." He leaned down, smiling. "You're a rather handsome boy, you know."

Victor repressed a shiver. Dr. Bumby may have been lauded for his psychiatric work, but Victor had discovered that the man's social skills were somewhat lacking (and that was saying something, coming from _him_ ). The good doctor had a strange knack for making compliments sound creepy. Not to mention that whenever Dr. Bumby looked at him like this, Victor had the oddest feeling he was being sized up for something. What, he didn't know, but it was enough to unnerve him. He reached for his tie, then stopped as he recalled how much that irritated the doctor. "Um, t-thank you," he said, twisting his hands together instead. "B-but I have been experiencing the world, sir. I don't spend all my time lost in memories of what happened those two days, I assure you." _And as for living women. . .I've found one, but I'm sure she'd never return my feelings. And judging by your reaction the last time we got close, you wouldn't approve of the match either._

Dr. Bumby frowned and straightened up. "It is impossible to get through to you, Master Van Dort," he grumbled. "Five months with no change – you should have been cured in half that time. I'm tempted to try more drastic measures. . .but I'll have to get your parents' approval first," he added with a deep, put-on sigh. "Consider this your last chance to cooperate. I am being paid to cure you, and cure you I will." He leaned forward again, his glasses shining blinding white in the sunlight as he locked eyes with Victor. "Whether you like it or not."

Oh dear – Victor hadn't thought there was anything worse than Bumby's too-sincere smiles, but this somehow managed to be even creepier. He couldn't think of a single response that would satisfy those eerie blank discs. So instead he turned his gaze to the window behind him, squeezing his fingers to stop them fidgeting. He hated putting Dr. Bumby in these moods – if only because the doctor was invariably short with him the rest of the day – but the alternative was doing something that felt wrong down to his very core. No matter what anyone might say or do, he couldn't bring himself to declare Emily nonexistent. The mere thought made him feel like – well, like Barkis Bittern. And the day he ended up anything like _that_ horrible man was the day he'd remove himself from human society altogether.

Dr. Bumby huffed and turned away, shaking his head. "Typical. It's sad, really, how some people refuse to accept help," he mumbled. "The world would be a much better place if we all followed our assigned purposes without question."

Victor wasn't sure he agreed, but didn't dare say so. It seemed too much like jabbing the lion in the eye. "Perhaps I just haven't found mine yet?" he suggested instead.

"Or you won't listen to those who already know," Dr. Bumby returned coldly. He sat down at his desk and picked up some papers. "But I don't have time to argue it with you. You're free to go."

Victor was only too happy to comply. He practically ran out the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Ugh, that office felt more like a prison with every session – especially with how Dr. Bumby had taken to hovering over him. But he'd earned his freedom for another week. And hopefully his parents would take their time granting permission for the psychiatrist to try more "drastic" treatments. He wanted to believe that they wouldn't grant their permission at all, but knowing his mother. . . . If only he could procure the money necessary to shed their influence over his life once and for all. _One day, you'll find a way out of here,_ he promised himself, running his fingers through his hair. _One day._

The hallway was crowded with children as usual, doodling on the walls and floor. Victor approached the nearest, Reggie, who was working hard on a picture of a big snarling dog. "Have you seen Alice?" he asked, crouching down. Talking with her was sure to lift his spirits. Maybe he could follow the children's example and get his sketchbook for another drawing of Wonderland. Adding to her art collection was better than sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

Reggie shook his head. "She ain't come back from her errand yet."

"She hasn't?" Victor frowned. That was odd. Alice preferred to get whatever Bumby ordered her to do over as quickly as possible, so she had more time to herself. Unless she got distracted, of course. _Which is happening more and more often these days,_ Victor admitted to himself, biting his lip.

It worried him, to tell the truth. During the majority of his stay here at the Home, Alice's hallucinations had seemed to be relatively infrequent and harmless, despite her dire warnings upon his arrival. Yes, sometimes she'd have a conversation with something that wasn't there, but in general she'd been as lucid as anyone else he knew. However, over the past fortnight, her mental state had deteriorated with alarming rapidity. Now she was seeing things multiple times a day – and worse, she was having a lot more trouble distinguishing reality from the illusion. She'd taken to snapping at empty chairs and cowering away from random strangers on the street, only realizing their harmlessness when prompted. Once he'd even gone into her room to find her beating her wardrobe with her umbrella – when he'd gotten her calmed down, she'd confessed to imagining she was hitting a Phantasmagoria with her flamingo croquet mallet ("And the horrid thing just would not die!"). It was a terrifying change to witness, especially in someone he cared about so much.

His biggest fear was that, one day, she'd have an episode so bad that she'd hurt herself – or worse, someone else. And he knew that was Alice's greatest fear as well. Once you got past her sharp words and cold demeanor, the last of the Liddells proved to have a surprisingly soft heart. She was always quick to apologize for her behavior after a moment of insanity, and more than once she'd anxiously examined him and anyone else nearby for signs of madness-inflicted injury, not relaxing until he'd assured her multiple times all was well. To wake from a hallucination with blood on her hands – Victor didn't think there was any force in this world that could keep her mind from snapping with the sheer horror. And when she talked about the mere possibility of going back to that wretched Rutledge Asylum – well, the terror in her eyes was enough to sway even the most hardened soul.

Except Dr. Bumby. The psychiatrist didn't seem to give even half a damn about the fact that Alice was suffering so much as of late. Oh yes, he _claimed_ that his therapy would eventually eliminate her hallucinations, but it didn't seem right that he just ignored them in the here and now. In fact, Victor would swear that this severe dip in Alice's sanity had started around the same time as Bumby's decision to try more "radical" treatments to eliminate her painful past. By Alice's own admission, the pills and extra sessions _were_ helping a little – but in Victor's opinion, the side effects were worse than the "disease." _There must be a less brutal way for Dr. Bumby to fix Alice's memory woes,_ he thought, shaking his head. _The way things are going, you'd think he had it out for her!_

"Nope," Reggie said, dragging Victor's mind back to the present. "Ain't seen her since she left. Maybe she saw a rabbit and ran off after it." He snickered. "Bet she's wading through the sewer right now, thinking she's in Wonderland."

"That's not funny," Victor said, giving the boy a severe look. "If she _was_ hurt, you'd be sorry."

Reggie just shrugged and added more teeth to his dog. Victor sighed and left him to it, heading down the stairs. All right, no Alice. Perhaps he could do some sketching on his own then. Or find a book to while away the time with until she returned. He couldn't have read them all yet. And surely she'd be back before he got too bored.

However, Reggie's words wouldn't let him be. What if she _had_ fallen into another hallucination while out and about? Normally he or Dr. Bumby was around to pull her out of it, but this time. . . . Despite himself, he began picturing Alice wandering the streets of Whitechapel, battling figments of her imagination, utterly oblivious to the world around her. . .and then falling into a ditch and breaking her legs, or running in front of a carriage going too fast to stop, or –

He shut his eyes, pressing on his temples. "She's fine," he told himself firmly. "She's – she's just taking a nice, long walk before she has to come back to this loathsome place. Like we do whenever we run errands together. She is perfectly all right and I'll see her when she gets back."

It didn't help. That niggle of worry kept tugging at his heart. The days were ending earlier now – what if night fell with her still out there? What if she got lost and couldn't find her way back? What if she injured herself in some forgotten alley where she couldn't get help? Or, worse yet, what if someone like Jack Splatter came upon her and decided that, as long as she didn't know what was happening in the real world –

A wave of nausea nearly doubled him over. Victor held his stomach and his breath, waiting for the sick feeling to pass. No – he couldn't bear to think of that happening to his Alice. He had to try looking for her, if only for the sake of his nerves. He'd probably find he was worrying over nothing, but – that was better than just sitting around with his mind running off in a thousand different, terrible directions, wasn't it? And besides, maybe once he found her, they could pop into a store, or look for a park, or – or do _anything_ together, really. Anything that might make this day better. His mind made up, Victor straightened his back and strode through the foyer and out the front doors, ready to tackle anything in his way.

He hoped, anyway.


	3. Return Of The Savior

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:37 P.M.

It was horrible and disgusting and somehow breathtaking up here.

Alice leaned on the railing of the rickety wooden bridge that stretched between the rooftops, staring out at the silhouetted maze of buildings and clouds that made up the London skyline. Laundry lines hung like lazy spider webs between windows, and gaping chimneys spewed thick black smoke into the air. You could taste the smog up here, flavoring every breath with a unique bitter tang. It wormed into your clothes too, and clung to your skin, leaving a film of grease and stink that never quite seemed to come off. It was enough to make even the most dedicated proponent of the Industrial Revolution long for the days before coal and steam.

And yet, it was impossible to deny that the various fumes really did bring out the colors in the late-afternoon sky. Radiant reds, blazing oranges, vivid greens. . . . Progress not only brought jobs and goods to London, it also produced some delightful sunsets. _About the only beautiful thing you can find in this ugly city,_ Alice thought, drumming her fingers against the rotting timber. Her gaze shifted left, to where Nurse Witless was tossing some moldy old breadcrumbs to her pigeons. _And speaking of ugly things. . ._ .

She couldn't say why she'd followed the old bint up here. Maybe it had been the impossible-to-squash hope that Witless might let slip, deliberately or accidentally, whose burrow her beloved toy rabbit was currently hiding in. Maybe it had been her need to be around someone whom she _knew_ was real, as opposed to the legions of Jabberwock-headed men with groping hands and fiery eyes who'd stalked her steps on the streets. Maybe it was simply because she hadn't really felt like going to the chemist to fetch pills that barely did a lick of good. Whatever the reason, it was now lost, crushed under the heavy weight of frustration. Why did Witless constantly string her on like this – promising her information and then never delivering? Was it seriously just to bilk her out of a couple more pounds than the regular fee she paid for Witless to never tell another soul about her "confession" at the asylum (and why oh _why_ hadn't her younger self learned to keep quiet earlier)? Or did the former nurse have a deeper, more sinister purpose in mind?

_No, this is Witless,_ Alice reminded herself, straightening up and completing the few steps to Witless's roof. _She can't plan for anything beyond procuring her next bottle of Blue Ruin. If she has a sinister purpose, it's a surprise even to her._ She frowned at the old woman's hunched back. _On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past her to mean me ill. She was released from her position about the same time I was released from my cell. I wonder. . . ._ "Nurse Witless, do you mean to harm me?" she asked, folding her arms. "To send me back to the asylum?" Blunt, yes, but she knew Witless wouldn't take offense. In fact, with any luck, the witch would be equally blunt and honest right back. Alice wasn't sure yet what she'd do if the answer was indeed yes, but she knew one thing for certain: she was _not_ going back to Rutledge – and certainly not to give this wretched crone back a job she hadn't done particularly well in the first place. The awful thought _Victor could probably pay her enough to leave me alone forever_ slipped into Alice's brain, and was immediately evicted. Victor got into enough trouble on his own in this horrible city. She wasn't inviting more onto his head. Witless was her problem to solve, and hers alone.

"I won't say no," Witless replied vaguely, scattering the last of her crumbs. The pigeons darted around her, snatching up as many as they could stuff into their gullets and bullying each other for more. Thieves and opportunists – no wonder Witless liked them. "I've a thirst you could photograph."

Alice was about to come back with, "Then why don't you bother someone with a camera for your pay?" – when out of nowhere the back of Witless's dress bulged, two curious lumps pushing at the ratty fabric. "Need a **drink** ," the former nurse went on, but her voice was strange and distorted now, getting more masculine and terribly familiar with every growled word. . .Alice drew back in horror as the lumps tore through the old woman's shawl, revealing a pair of tiny dragon-like wings as her skin darkened to a sickly green. . . " **More than my whistle needs wetting!** "

And then she turned, but she wasn't Witless anymore. Instead, Alice found herself staring at the jaws that bite and the claws that catch and the eyes of flame, blazing with a hatred hotter and stronger than the furnace that had powered him the last time they had met. _No,_ she thought in terror as the Jabberwock roared and advanced upon her. _No, please, not again, not again. . . ._

As she backed away, holding up her hands in useless defense, a flash of blue light caught her eye. She looked down at the aged and pitted concrete to find herself surrounded by a web of cracks, spreading with every step she took and emitting an eerie azure glow. She had exactly three seconds to wonder what fresh hell this was. Then, with a mighty crash, the roof gave way, and she was careening down into blackness, into unconsciousness. . .

_"Go – to Wonderland!"_

. . .into a hole of muted rainbow fog.

She tumbled head over heels for a moment, trying to get her bearings, before managing to straighten herself out. Chairs, clocks, cogs, cards, and other fiddly bits of household civilization floated past her as she fell, suspended in midair as if on invisible strings. Alice almost grinned when she saw them – well, that at least was a good sign. The last time she'd fallen down the rabbit hole, the tunnel had been distressingly empty – her first clue something was wrong with her beloved mental world. This crowd of random objects was much more like it. She reached out her hand as she passed a bulging shelf, wondering if she could snag a book from the sky like the empty jar of marmalade she'd snatched on her very first trip –

But then both books and colors faded away, replaced by a tunnel of rusted and corroded pipes, studded here and there with hideous white doll faces. Alice repressed a shudder as they stared at her with eyeless malice, remembering chill slippery fingers shredding her cheeks and digging into her brain. All right, perhaps things weren't as settled as she'd hoped. But what _were_ these horrid things doing on her fall to Wonderland? She wasn't about to find herself plunging straight into a river of sludge, welcomed to death by Rabbit's headless corpse, was she?

Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case. A circle of blue sky opened up beneath her instead, signaling the end of her journey. _Good – I won't be sad to leave this diseased, corrupted hole behind,_ she thought, giving the faces a quick glare. _To nonsense and wonder we go –_

Then the memory of how she'd greeted the realm the _last_ time returned to her, making her wince. _Oh no – I am_ not _making my grand entrance by falling on my arse in a plot of mushrooms again! If we're going to do this, we're going to do it_ properly _!_ Flipping herself over so that she was falling feet-first – landing on your bum was embarrassing, but there was no sense in giving yourself a broken neck either – she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing all her thoughts on how she _should_ look upon her arrival.

A little ball of heat formed in the center of her guts, warming her body like a miniature star. Seconds later, it went supernova, throwing her head back and sending a shockwave through the sky. A brilliant corona of white light engulfed her, and then –

Her mussed and ragged hair grew long and silky.

Her sun-starved skin took on a healthy pink glow.

Her thin black shoes lengthened into a pair of tall sturdy boots.

Her bare neck was encircled by a silver chain bearing the mark of the omega.

And her dingy black-and-white dress shredded itself and fluttered away into nothingness, replaced by a vivid blue gown and a pure white apron splattered here and there with fresh, sticky red. Alice smiled as she spread her arms and steadied herself, drifting down to the earth below. _Beware, all those who would threaten my mind._

_Wonderland's savior has returned._

* * *

The Vale of Tears

_And here I thought no trip to Wonderland could be stranger than the last._

Alice hiccuped as she shrank again, passing through the tiny gap in the domino-and-dice arch into what appeared to be a cave formed from the discarded shell of some monstrous snail. Purple crayon scribbled on the far wall caught her eye, alerting her to the presence of a miniature crystal house hidden behind a nearby rock. _Aha – I'll get that in a moment,_ she thought, popping back to full size and brushing a few strands of hair from her face. _I need some time to collect my wits – whatever I have of them, anyway._

It was funny – she'd thought she'd seen all Wonderland had to offer in terms of bafflement the last time she'd come, when she'd been thrown into a war for her sanity without even so much as a proper hello. But this particular jaunt into the inner workings of her mind was already full of mysteries even more peculiar. Hidden paths and pictorial guides that only appeared when she was the size of a mouse were just the least significant of the lot. The most significant was summed up by one simple question, one she'd asked herself often during her travels so far: _Why am I here in the first place?_

Granted, she'd be the first to admit her hallucinations had been more troublesome than ever during the past fortnight. Fleeing from Jabberwock-faced men in the street, avoiding the temptation to follow the White Rabbit as he darted around corners, having to be saved from her own Phantasmagorical wardrobe by Victor – oh yes, it had been quite the struggle to remain in the real world over the last two weeks. But given the way her subconscious always reacted when Bumby told her to visit Wonderland in trance, she hadn't expected it to call her back on its own. All the monsters and demons and black baby-dolled gunk had seemed to indicate quite clearly that the land didn't want her anymore – that it was doing just fine without her mucking about in it, thank you very much. Being abruptly yanked down into the Vale of Tears in the middle of a visit with Witless was the height of surprise.

Even stranger – there didn't seem to be anything that needed doing. The Vale of Tears had changed dramatically since the last time she'd seen it, yes, but strictly for the better. Gone were endless fog and dead brown earth, thorn-throwing Roses and vicious Army Ants. This Vale had gorgeous green grass right out of a storybook, and blue skies bursting with puffy white clouds. Moss-covered statues of herself sprang from shallow clear pools, weeping rivers of saltwater which flowed over the edges of the floating islands in sparkling waterfalls. Towering trees shaded her head with multicolored leaves, oversized dominoes and marbles entangled in their roots. The flowers, rather than trying to attack her, lit up like friendly lamps as she approached. Angry Ants, snapping Snarks, and buzzing Ladybugs had been traded for gentle cow-headed birds ( _Mock Sparrows,_ Alice had decided with a giggle), googly-eyed snails of every size imaginable – from slimy creepers barely bigger than her hand to lumbering behemoths with trees growing on their backs – and those adorable little "nutterflies" she'd seen in her session. There was even a lake of bright purple Drink Me potion hidden in a forested glade, a bath in which had ensured she'd never have to risk breaking every bone in her body looking up a recipe in the Skool library again. Everywhere you looked, there was something new and beautiful to admire. It was if Wonderland had suddenly decided to revert to the simple, joyful place she'd dreamed up the afternoon of her seventh birthday. Not that she minded. It was nice to have a chance to just _explore_ again, without worrying if something was about to leap out and tear her to bits.

Still, even with everything so wonderful and calm, Alice wasn't about to let her guard down. The Cheshire Cat had greeted her with a warning when she'd first dropped from the sky, after all. It was his usual cryptic nonsense about "a new law" reigning and "very rough justice all around," to be sure, but she'd taken the words to heart nonetheless. For all the irritation the Cat caused her, he'd rarely steered her wrong. And she was too cynical now, too hurt, to accept this veneer of happiness at face value. It was quite possible she simply hadn't stumbled upon where the evil lurked yet. She shivered as she thought of what _else_ she'd seen under hypnosis besides nutterflies and nature. _Was_ that river of black sludge waiting for her deeper in the Vale's peaks and valleys? Would she have to fight some monstrous doll later in her journeys? She hoped not, but hope hadn't served her as well as a good sturdy weapon in the past. _Besides,_ she thought as she headed for the rock where she'd seen the drawing, _there has to be a reason why someone's scattered my memories all over the landscape._

Yet another mystery, though a relatively benign one (for now, anyway). She'd run across the first of them mere moments after Cheshire had vanished – a tiny crystal replica of her old house, floating idly on the slope by the river of tears. She'd spent at least five baffled minutes circling it, trying to puzzle out its purpose. Eventually, she'd given in to the urge to touch it – only to have it shatter beneath her fingertips. And then, just for a moment, she'd been back in Oxford, playing leapfrog with Edith Gardner while Lizzie chatted with her playmate's older sister Mary. Lizzie had laughed and applauded as Alice won another round. _"You're part frog, Alice, I swear. You jump so well!"_ she'd declared –

Right before the Vale had reasserted itself on Alice's consciousness, leaving the young lady disoriented and just a tad frightened. Why and how had such a thing happened? She hadn't thought about that day in years. . . . When she'd found the second house, waiting for her on a ledge past the weeping statue (where she'd swear she'd seen an Insane Child – where had it disappeared to?), she'd almost passed it by. But curiosity was still her weakness, and she'd gone ahead and broken it. That one had made her five again, on a cold, rainy, and most of all boring March day. She'd been amusing herself by repeatedly climbing onto the dining room table and jumping off, pretending she was a bird in flight before her feet hit the wooden floor. Mama had discovered her after the third jump and tried to get her to stop. _"If you leap from that table again, Alice, I'll expire!"_ she'd sworn, although it was hard to take her seriously when Alice could hear the laugh in her voice. _"You're two times too reckless, my girl!"_ And with that, Alice had found herself once more on the ledge, with a set of appropriately table-like mushrooms to ascend popping from the earth below her. _Memories,_ she'd realized then. The houses were memories she'd forgotten, slipping back into her consciousness with a tap of her finger.

At first, she'd been upset – furious, even. What the hell was Wonderland playing at? Why was it delivering memories to her, and in such an odd form? There was no _point_ in remembering – for God's sake, she'd spent nearly a year in therapy trying to _forget_! The halcyon days of her childhood were long dead and buried – why try to bring them back? But then she'd caught herself thinking about Lizzie's smile, and her mother's warm touch, and her anger had drained away. Perhaps there was no point to remembering these little snippets – but there was no harm in it, either. It was nice to hear the voices of her parents and sister again. Comforting, in fact. And the recollections themselves were far from painful. She might have told Bumby time and time again how much she desired to forget, but standing in the middle of Wonderland's glory, she'd realized that what she truly wanted was to remember. Her sister's praise, her mother's laugh, her father's hugs – all the good things that seemed so far away whenever her thoughts strayed to the horrors of the fire. By the time she'd found the third one, revolving above another ledge right above the mushroom "staircase," she'd decided the little crystal houses were a pleasant addition to Wonderland's landscape.

The little crystal _syringes_ were rather less welcome. Entering a scene from the asylum, even a relatively innocuous one involving nothing more than Dr. Wilson commenting on her tendency to hide away in herself, after emerging from the Drink Me pool wasn't exactly Alice's idea of fun. But she had to admit, it had piqued her curiosity even more. What other voices would she hear on her journey? What other shapes would she see? And what was the purpose of it all? Just to point out that there were memories of her life worth keeping? No, it couldn't be, why throw in memories of _Rutledge_ if that were the case. . . .

_"I'll never have more fun than when I rode the big slide in Hyde Park. Papa will take you soon, Alice."_

Alice pressed her lips together against a twinge of grief as she came out of the memory, Lizzie's voice still echoing around the shell cavern. Oh yes, she knew that conversation. She'd been trying a piece of needlework, but had rapidly grown bored and instead interrogated her sister about all the adventures she'd had before their parents had surprised her with a sibling. It had been a day of much laughter and smiles – and it had happened less than a week before the fire. It was painful to think about how happy they'd been, blissful in their ignorance of the impending disaster. . . . _I never did get to go down that slide,_ she thought, closing her eyes as her fingers bunched on her skirts. _Oh, Mama, Papa, Lizzie. . . ._

No – no time to linger here and depress herself with thoughts about the past. There was a reason for Wonderland starting her on this journey, and she was determined to discover it. Burying her grief in the back of her mind, she turned her attention back to the cave walls, eyes peeled for the exit.

Only to come up empty. The sides of the shell were smooth and unbroken, without even a crack she could shrink through. Alice frowned, pursing her lips. She'd followed her mysterious benefactor's scribbled clues religiously. . .had they led her to a dead end? That wasn't really Wonderland's way, though. . . .

She circled the area, examining the terrain minutely for clues. There wasn't much to see. A few more glowing flowers, with petals shaped like blue candles and red spades – some moss-covered rocks jutting up out of the grass – the thin purplish walls curving over her head – the archway she'd come in – a hole in the ceiling, providing a tantalizing glimpse of clouds and sun while still being just too high for her to reach – and right below that, one of those springy mushrooms that had started popping up all over the Vale. Well, almost – this one's spiraled cap was shaded blue instead of pink. Alice leaned over it, studying it further. It looked the same in every other respect – was it just a natural color variation? Or did this one do something different and possibly horrible?

_Only one way to find out,_ she thought, and jumped onto it. The cap sagged under her weight, then burst upward, sending her sailing out through the hole into the sky –

And then, for a split second, the world around her became featureless white void. Alice looked around wildly as she floated in the nothingness. _Goddamn it, what did I do? Was that some sort of trap? Where am I?!_ Then her feet hit solid ground again, and Wonderland rebuilt itself around her, revealing –

A slide.

Alice covered her mouth, holding in a laugh. She was standing right at the top of the biggest slide she had ever seen, made of dominoes and green chalkboard. Peering forward, she could see it twisting and curving around itself, forming a corkscrew path to the ground. _Well well,_ she thought with a grin, _if I can't have Hyde Park. . . ._

She was about to sit down and push off when a nearby glitter caught her eye. Turning, she saw a delicate crystalline butterfly revolving slowly on the opposite side of the landing. It looked to be made from the same stuff as the little houses and the syringe. A memory of some sort, then – but from who? They'd covered her family and doctors. . . . Preparing herself for the possibility of something unpleasant (although, really, nothing could be worse than seeing the white walls of Rutledge around her again, however briefly), Alice placed her hand on the butterfly.

_Victor's bed was just as lumpy as hers, but with one's attention focused elsewhere, it made an acceptable enough seat. And Alice's attention was definitely focused elsewhere. She leaned forward a little, admiring the sketches her friend had pinned all over his walls. Despite being nothing more than a collection of black lines, the drawings of the butterflies seemed to have just as much color and life in them as the real thing. "You have quite the talent for this," she told him, nodding at a picture of what he'd said was a Common Brimstone (what a name for a butterfly). "How long have you been drawing these?"_

_"Since I_ could _draw," Victor replied with a grin._ _ **"I've loved butterflies all my life. I don't see how anyone couldn't like such beautiful creatures."**_

Aha – apparently Victor was making his presence known in Wonderland as well. Alice smiled as she came back to herself on the landing. She'd agreed with him then, and she still agreed with him now. How could anyone not enjoy being around butterflies? They were like little living paintings, floating through the air and making the world a brighter, happier place. She'd adored them as a child, chasing them through the garden and catching them in jars to display on her windowsill for a day or two before letting them go. And she liked them even more now that Victor had shared everything he knew about them with her. It was funny – Victor was usually quite shy and reserved, but if one asked him something about butterflies, he could talk your ear off. It was very amusing to watch him ramble on about migration patterns and feeding habits and the metamorphosis of caterpillars. (And then he'd realize he was rambling and get all flustered, which was even funnier.) _I wonder what he'd make of the nutterflies I keep seeing,_ she thought, watching jacks and dice drift around the top of the slide in a lazy circle. _Poor Victor – butterflies are practically non-existent in the East End. I bet he would just love it here. . . ._

She blinked and shook her head. _Stop getting distracted,_ she scolded herself. _You're not here to woolgather, you're here to find out why you've been called back._ She smirked. _And besides, this slide has been waiting so patiently for you to arrive – let's not disappoint it!_ With a giggle, she plopped herself onto the chalkboard surface and pushed off, wondering what other surprises Wonderland had waiting for her at the bottom.

* * *

"Get _off_ me!"

Alice swatted furiously at the creatures clinging to her, doing everything she could to dislodge them. They responded with low hisses, digging their needle-fine legs deeper into her skin and sinking their – teeth? – right through her clothes and into her flesh. _What are they even biting me_ with _?_ Alice thought, running to and fro and shaking herself like a wet dog. The – Bolterflies, what else could she call something that was essentially the familiar metal fastener equipped with dragonfly wings – clung on all the tighter. _They don't have mouths, they're bolts! Those X-shaped grooves on their front can't possibly count! And – oh, no, not one of_ them _too!_

She groaned as the sludge monster toddled its way down the nearby slope, its cold china face fixed on her tormented form. Alice had encountered only a handful of its brethren so far, but already she loathed them. The beasts were more mobile versions of the river that had tormented her so in her session, multi-limbed blobs made of burning ooze, smoking pipes, and bone-white porcelain. _Insidious Ruin,_ she'd thought after battling the first three, and it described them very well. So well that she'd already decided to make it their official name. No point in wasting precious time looking for something better for such evil beasts, not when it could be spent on much more fruitful pursuits.

Such as avoiding the one now coming straight at her. Alice twisted and squirmed madly, trying and failing once again to free herself from the swarm of Bolterflies. "Wretched things!" she snarled, wincing as they drained her blood. "No wonder the Duchess preferred to give me her precious Pepper Grinder rather than deal with the likes of you!"

The Bolterflies ignored her, intent on their meals. They didn't even move when the Ruin swiped at her, oblivious to her scream of pain as the hot tar fingers scorched her back. She darted away from the Ruin as fast as her chewed legs could manage, almost in tears. Was there _nothing_ that could get these horrid insects off her? Was she going to be drained dry by the Wonderland equivalent of the mosquito five feet from the Duchess's back door?

_No! I am not going to die thanks to the efforts of a few bugs!_ she thought, blinking her eyes clear. With a flick of her wrist, her old friend the Vorpal Blade appeared in her hand. _And I'm certainly not going to do it in a place where I might end up as the main ingredient of a stew! I'll_ chop _these things off, even if I end up reducing myself to insect-sized pieces in the process!_

Thinking that conjured up an image in her mind of Victor's corpse bride, crumbling into butterflies by the light of the moon. _Now wouldn't_ that _be useful,_ Alice grumbled to herself, slicing the wings off a Bolterfly on her leg. It fell away dead, only to be replaced by another. _To be able to just dissolve my body away and have it reappear elsewhere. I don't think these things would bother going after a rabble of butterflies. Perhaps if I concentrate hard enough, Wonderland will think it's the Land of the Dead and allow me the option?_ Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused on a point behind a nearby tree.

There was a flutter of wings. A soft glow of blue. The sensation of being weightless and almost insubstantial. And then, suddenly, she was herself again, free of Bolterflies and behind the tree in question.

It took a scouting Bolterfly flying at her face to break her out of her stunned trance. Alice slashed and peppered her foes on automatic, her mind racing. How – she hadn't seriously thought that would _work_! She'd never managed such a feat on her previous visits! And yet, once she'd done it, it had felt as easy as breathing. Could she just burst into butterflies whenever she wanted now? Or was that a one-time escape granted because her mind had been filled with thoughts of Emily? Smashing the last of the evil insects' nests, she peppered down the dwindling swarm, then shut her eyes and tried the trick again, this time focusing on a spot about halfway up the slope where she'd first seen the Insidious Ruin.

Once more, she was nothing but whispering blue wings for a moment. Then her body obligingly reformed at the requested area, hale and whole. Laughing, Alice plunged her Blade deep into the belly of the squealing blob of gunk. "Thank you Victor!" she called up to the clouds as she disposed of her foe. "I wish I could bring you a Bolterfly or two to study!"

The last of said insects hissed and made a grab for her arm. She whirled away and felled it with the Blade. "Then again, I doubt even you would like these horrid things," she said, giving the broken corpse a little kick. "Ugh. Now, where is that pig snout the Duchess wanted?"

* * *

_"The railway running through Wonderland sounds charming but inefficient. 'Noise and smoke' – like 'snips and snails,' perhaps. Best to forget that train. A mock turtle as conductor? Oh no, I don't think that will do at all."_

"Bugger off, Doctor!" Alice snapped as Bumby's office slid away, back into memory. "Snips and snails and puppy dog tails are much better than steaming and slithering and destroying my Vale!"

Perhaps that was being a little unfair to the doctor, but Alice didn't care. Not when that river of Ruin she loathed, that he'd helped her dream up, had finally found its way into Wonderland. The once-gorgeous world was literally falling to pieces around her, fauna and flora alike supplanted by endless fountains of the wretched black goo. _Why can't anything I love stay beautiful and innocent?_ Alice wondered, making her way back across the freshly-baked brown chunks of earth that had led her to this memory. _It's bad enough everyone around me seems to die violently and unnaturally – must the same apply to the_ landscape _?_

The answer to that was apparently yes – as she reached the top of what had once been a quiet valley connecting two islands, more trees came crashing down, tumbling away into an endless red-tinted abyss. Alice pressed her hand against her eyes. "Was there ever a girl so unlucky?" she muttered. "My mind loathes me."

"Come on, slowpoke!"

Alice's head jerked up. Across the gap left by the falling foliage, she could see what looked like a relatively untouched oasis of green, sporting thick tall trees and warm welcoming flowers – and a tiny ginger figure in a white gown, waving to her. "I knew I saw a child! What are you doing here as the world goes to hell?" she yelled.

The child just giggled and motioned for her to cross, before disappearing behind a rocky corner. Alice sighed and leapt, spinning in midair to allow her skirt to catch the breeze and carry her along. "I can never get a simple straight answer. . . ."

Upon landing, she quickly discovered her apparent "oasis" contained two things of note – a nasty infestation of Insidious Ruins and Bolterflies ( _joy_ ), and a twisted train platform, with a line of rusted, broken cars hanging off its far side. Alice sliced and peppered her way through the monsters with ease, then stared up at the crooked sign hanging above the Ruin-soaked stop. _Vale of Tears: Looking Glass Railway_ – the very same train Dr. Bumby had mentioned. Alice _had_ forgotten it, not thinking it worth fighting over with the doctor, but now the memories came rushing back – riding as a Pawn through the first two squares of Looking-Glass Land; giving the Mock Turtle the conductor's job so he'd have something to keep himself occupied besides crying over everything and nothing; catching the occasional ride to and fro as it expanded to encompass both main kingdoms of her world. . . . Her lips curved in a sad smile. She'd never been all that fond of trains – too loud and smoky for her liking – but she'd always had a soft spot for the Looking-Glass Line.

The wail of metal being dragged over stone grabbed her attention, and she turned her head just in time to see the last of the battered train cars slip over the island's edge, toppling engine over caboose into the endless storm that now filled the sky. Alice ran to watch them fall, her stomach twisting into a knot. What was going on here? Bumby had only told her to forget the train, not destroy it! Why would someone want to do away with the Looking-Glass Line? Who could be responsible for such destruction, such decay?

Who'd been responsible for maintaining the railroad?

The image of a tall man with an even taller top hat swam in front of her eyes. A man who'd gone from healthy pink skin to lurid green hide, from soft yielding flesh to firm unforgiving metal, from friendly madman to deranged lunatic. He'd tried to destroy this world before, attempting to turn everything organic into unfeeling, unthinking machines. But. . . "Hatter always _hated_ mechanical malfunctions," she said to the world at large. "This disaster is either his doing – or his epitaph. But which?"

Well, there was only one way to find out. She knew the next stop on the Line had been Hatter's Domain (to facilitate with improvements and repairs) – and despite the Vale's continuing attempts at suicide, there were still a few pieces of track left to guide her along. Alice ran down one and launched herself into the sky, twirling and floating toward the next tiny island.

Time to follow this train of thought and see where it led.


	4. The Drunkard Gets Her Due

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

5:56 P.M.

_Where on earth could she be?_

Victor glanced up at the sign as he turned the corner – Goring Street. How pleasant. _Sounds like a place you'd find Downstairs, actually,_ he thought, scanning the meandering crowds for any sign of Alice as he made his way down the sidewalk. _I wouldn't be surprised if they named their lanes and avenues after manners of death. But would Goring or Gored be better?_

 _"I'm sure they'd prefer whichever name was more gruesome, given what you've told me about how they enjoy eating each other's noses,"_ went through his head, making him smile. _Yes, I'm sure that's just how she'd put it too._ He sighed, his face dropping. _I wish I was actually talking to her about this instead of just myself. . . ._

He'd been through most of the major streets of Whitechapel by this point, searching every lane and byway that he and Alice had once walked together. So far, all he'd turned up was a bunch of street salesmen looking for a quick pound. He was doing his level best to remain calm and composed – taking slow, even breaths, walking at a reasonable pace, and generally attempting to project an air of unconcernedness. Only the fact that his hands never stopped moving – folding together, twisting his tie, rubbing the back of his neck – betrayed just how worried, how frightened, he really was. _I mustn't panic,_ he told himself, dodging around someone's toddler running wild across the cobbles. The mother came racing along soon after, bumping his hip. _I cannot panic. Bad things happen when I panic. I cannot afford for anything bad to happen. Not when Alice is missing and has been for a few hours oh God what if she's hurt or lost or – no! Stay calm!_

That was easier said than done, of course. The instant the chemist had informed him that he hadn't seen Alice at all this afternoon, Victor's mind had decided that the best thing to do was start obsessing over the image of her lying unconscious and bleeding in some distant alleyway. Even now he was struggling to fight off all the worst fantasies his mind could conjure up – which was turning out to be quite a few. Her body broken and tossed into some forgotten ditch; her skull smashed by an overexcited horse; her last few fragments of innocence torn away by cruel groping hands –

Victor stopped and closed his eyes, squeezing his hands as he sucked in a breath. No – he couldn't let himself be distracted by his own overactive imagination. He had to focus on finding Alice. All he was doing now was upsetting himself with random conjecture that probably had no basis in reality –

 _Who am I kidding, I live in Whitechapel!_ his inner voice screamed. _She's probably in terrible danger and by the time I find her she's going to be dead and while that means a happy reunion with her parents and sister it also means she'll never get to have a proper_ life _and I'll never see her again and please God I can't lose someone else –_

"Hello, sir! Might a feeble old lady trouble you for a pound or two?"

Victor nearly leapt right out of his skin. Clutching his chest, he turned to see a rather old woman with one of the biggest, most bulbous noses he'd ever come across (and he'd come across a fair number around here) regarding him with wary eyes. "Dear me, I thought for sure you were going to fall down dead right in the middle of the street," she commented. "Jumpy, aren't you?"

Victor swallowed, fighting off a blush. Well, that's what he got for letting his brain run away with him like that. "Do forgive me," he said as his heart slowly stopped thudding against his ribcage. "I was thinking of something else, and you s-startled me."

"That much was obvious, dear." The woman gave him an ingratiating smile. "I am sorry for disturbing you, but I'm afraid I haven't got much in the way of coin today. Could you favor me with–"

She stopped abruptly, frowning. "Wait. . . ." She squinted, peering hard at him through the tiny glasses clamped onto the bridge of her nose. "I think I've seen you about before. You're Victor Van Dort, aren't you?"

"Ah – yes, that's me," Victor said, biting his lip. Oh dear, this was just what he needed – someone else who knew about him from all those damn rumors. _Please don't call me a necrophiliac please don't call me a necrophiliac –_

"I thought so!" the woman cried. "You're that fellow who's staying at the Houndsditch Home with Alice! I've seen you out walking with her sometimes." She stuck out a frail hand. "Nurse Priscilla Witless. I used to work in Rutledge Asylum."

Victor blinked. "You – you did?" he said, shaking her hand almost on automatic. "Alice never mentioned you. Of course, she doesn't usually like to talk about her time in the a-asylum. . . ." And Victor didn't blame her. The few times she'd let something slip, he'd been horrified beyond belief. He'd already known that the last place he wanted to end up was inside a mental hospital, but hearing about the experiences of someone who'd already been trapped in the bowels of a place like Rutledge – well, it was a wonder she didn't suffer more nightmares than she already did. Being shocked in an electric chair, having leeches drain your blood, nearly getting a _drill_ shoved through your head – how could such _torture_ be called medicine?

"I imagine she doesn't," Nurse Witless nodded. "It was a terrible time for us all. If she wasn't lying there still as a statue, she was screaming her head off. Mad as a hatter, poor dearie." She shook her head and tched. "I never thought she'd walk out of there on her own two feet."

"I'm glad she proved you wrong," Victor said, smiling as he pictured Alice confidently striding out of the asylum gates, suitcase in hand, ready to take on the world. Oh, if only he could see that look on her now, instead of the fear and exhaustion that so often haunted her eyes these days. . . .

"Oh, I don't know about that, Master Van Dort," Nurse Witless said, just a bit too casually. "She seems to be backsliding, I'm afraid."

Victor stared at the nurse, a little cold spot forming in his gut. "What?"

Nurse Witless grinned – a most inappropriate expression for delivering such news, in Victor's opinion. "I met her earlier a street or two away from the Flaming Stallion. Poor dear seemed in a bad way – kept looking around her like she was expecting something to jump from the shadows and eat her up in one bite! Twas clear to me that she was seeing things again. So I took her up to visit my pigeon coops – such pretty birds they are. They always calm her right down. But today–" Witless shook her head, sticking out her lower lip in a pout. "Well, I was having a pleasant chat with the girl, when out of nowhere she gasps and starts staring at me like I was no less than the Prince of Darkness himself. I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she wouldn't answer. Just kept backing away from me, seeming right on the edge of a scream. Then she collapsed in a dead faint. I thought she'd given herself a heart attack for a moment."

Victor's heart didn't know whether to leap or sink. On the one hand, the news that Alice was indeed seeing monsters on the street was about the worst he could get – particularly in light of his tortured imaginings. On the other. . . . "I've been looking for her for at least a hour," he told the nurse, wringing his hands. "Is she all right?"

"I don't know, sorry to say," Nurse Witless replied, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I managed to bring her down to my room, but while I was looking for the smelling salts, she woke up, babbled something about a cat, and then raced out into the hall. I tried to follow her, but she was leaping down the stairs like – well, a madwoman. By the time I reached the streets, she was long gone."

Sinking it was, then. Victor put his face in his hands. "Oh no," he groaned. "I hope she hasn't gotten hurt. . . ."

"I'd be more worried about whoever's unlucky enough to be around her getting hurt," Nurse Witless said, edging closer to him. "You don't know what she was like in Rutledge, do you? Nearly clawed some poor woman's face off when she tried to give the girl a bath."

Victor looked back up. "Really?"

"Really," Nurse Witless confirmed with a nod. "Seemed to think the nurse was some noblewoman she wasn't fond of. And then there was the incident with the orderlies and the spoon. Permanently scarred one of the boys! We were all terrified to enter her cell. She didn't wake up often in that place, but when she did – watch out!"

Victor frowned. Witless's face was the picture of seriousness – but he'd swear there was a spark of _glee_ in the nurse's eyes. Was telling him all these horror stories about how Alice had suffered truly that entertaining? "She wasn't w-well at the time. . .I'm sure she's sorry," he said, feeling the need to defend his best friend's honor. Frown deepening, he added, "You know, she's told me about the spoon – and about how those orderlies made it their business to taunt and torment her every chance they got. As for the former. . .was that one of those saltwater baths she mentioned? The kind where the water is colder than ice?"

The glee vanished, replaced by grumpiness. "Could have been," Witless said vaguely, not meeting his eyes. Then a sly little smile appeared on her lips. "But I think there was something off about the girl even before she entered Rutledge. Do you know what I heard her say one night not long after she came to us?"

"What?" Victor asked, eying her.

"'All died on my account, I couldn't save you,'" Witless declared, face triumphant. "Sounds to me like she had more to do with that fire than she likes to let on. Don't you think that's suspicious?" She shook her head again, now all compassion and sympathy. "Poor thing must be eaten up with guilt. . . ."

Victor gaped at the former nurse. Was she – was she really – and she expected him to – "How – how _dare_ you?!"

Judging by Witless's baffled expression, that wasn't what he was supposed to say. "How dare I what?" she replied, blinking.

"How dare you tell me those things to try and poison my mind against Alice! How _dare_ you imply that she was the one to kill her family?!" Victor snarled, fists clenched. "And with something as – as _silly_ as that! _Any_ child would probably say such a thing after suffering such tragedy! It means _nothing_! And yet you – and you were a _nurse_?!"

"And a damn good one!" Witless snapped, glaring. "And it certainly means something to Alice, otherwise she wouldn't keep pay–"

She stopped short, eyes darting from side to side. The wheels ground to life in Victor's brain. Alice got a decent wage from Dr. Bumby. . .and she didn't buy much beyond the groceries, which were paid for out of Bumby's pocket. . .yet she never seemed to have any money. . . . "You've been _blackmailing_ her?"

"An old woman has got to eat!" Witless cried, giving up all pretense of civility. "You swell, you've never known what it's like to be hungry and thirsty! I need my drink! It doesn't matter to me how I get the money!"

"Obviously," Victor hissed between gritted teeth. "I take a _very_ dim view of people who manipulate and hurt others just for money, Nurse Witless."

"Do you now? Spoken like someone who's never suffered an empty purse," Witless shot back, eyes narrowed. "Besides, if it weren't for me bringing her to the attention of Dr. Bumby, Alice would be like every other girl here without a penny to her name – selling her backside for her dinner! Don't I deserve consideration for that?"

"Consideration does not mean sucking every last pound away from an already-struggling young lady!" Victor snapped. Even as he said it, though, he knew it wouldn't do any good. Witless was just like every other person in the East End, caring only about herself. If she even knew the definition of 'empathy,' she'd consider it a dirty word. But he was just so _disgusted_. Was it really so hard to keep hold of a few morals in this horrible city? To at least not make life any worse for your fellow citizens?

"Oh yes, like _she'd_ spend them on anything important," Witless said, rolling her eyes. "Girl's been mad as a March hare for years. Did you know, back in June she was actually going to waste her money buying _you_ a birthday present? Your family could buy every shop in this neighborhood! It was much better served being spent at the Stallion."

"Buying me. . . ." Victor abruptly flashed back to the day before his birthday, when he'd caught Alice coming back from some sort of trip. She'd rushed past him with an absolutely heartbroken look on her face, refusing to talk about it. While everything seemed to have been settled by the time she gave him his present the next day, he'd never found out the why behind her distress. . . . His fingernails bit into his palms as he struggled to contain his rapidly-swelling ire. Who knew he could get so angry over something so far in the past? "That was because of _you_?! Do you know how upset you made her?"

"Do you care that much about getting a present?" Witless spat. "Typical rich brat. How you've not been nailed for your wallet by even the worst gonoph is–"

"I don't give a damn about you robbing me of a gift!" Victor snapped, flinging his arms out to the sides. "I care about how much you hurt my best friend! When she came home that day, I thought for sure she was going to start crying! I worried about her all night!"

Now it was Witless's turn to gape at him. "Wait – you – you don't actually _care_ for the girl, do you?" she asked, astonished.

"Of course I do!" Victor shouted, not even caring that a few people were giving him funny looks now. "Alice is the only reason I've been able to tolerate living in this wretched neighborhood! She's kind, compassionate, funny, beautiful–"

" _Beautiful_?! Bloody hell, you're acting like you want to marry her!"

Victor hesitated a moment. Then he leaned forward, hitting Witless with a steely glare. "And what if I do?"

The old woman's eyes went wide. "You – you and – can't be – you're lying!"

"Not about this," Victor said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. "Never about this."

Witless's jaw seemed about ready to detach itself. "You – you actually – I would have never. . . ." The ingratiating smile made an abrupt reappearance. "Er – you know, I never meant dear Alice any harm, it's just – an old woman has such trouble getting along in the world. . . ." she babbled, backing away a step.

"I'm sure you do, you rotten lushington," Victor replied, voice like ice. "And I suspect things are about to get much worse." He straightened up to his full six feet three inches, glowering at Witless down the length of his nose. It was a first-time effort, but he felt he pulled it off surprisingly well. "I'm going off to find Alice. And when I do, I'm going to take her home, and I'm going to make sure she's never bothered by the likes of _you_ again. I don't want you within ten feet of Houndsditch or her. I'll tell Dr. Bumby so he knows to drive you off if he sees you. And if, later, I discover that you've ignored my instructions and continued blackmailing her, making her life more miserable than it already is. . . ."

He actually wasn't sure what he'd do, but trailing off like that seemed to encourage Witless's imagination to fill in the blanks. She nodded rapidly. "Yes, of course, Master Van Dort. You'll see neither hide or hair of me in the neighborhood again." She swiped her hand in an X over her heart. "Promise."

"Good." He gave her a curt nod. "Then our business is settled. Good day to you, Nurse Witless." With that, Victor turned on his heel and marched away, leaving the old woman to wring her hands behind him.

He made it about halfway down the street before the guilt began to set in. Had he really just _threatened_ an elderly lady? One who was clearly poor and struggling to make a living? How could he have done such a thing? Didn't that make him no better than the rest of the thugs who roamed these ugly streets? He ought to turn around and apologize.

Then the image of Alice's stricken face swam before his eyes, sending him back to seething. How could that old witch have done that to Alice? How _could_ she? His friend had so little already. . . . Was dumping beer and gin down her throat that important to Witless?

 _Yes, of course it is,_ he thought bitterly, rolling his eyes. _Anyone who lives here has turned their heart into a lump of coal so it won't get in the way of what they want._ Victor shook his head, growling under his breath. _Disgusting neighborhood. . . . If only I could go back to Burtonsville. Or – or anywhere, really. I feel like the longer I stay here in Whitechapel, the closer I get to losing everything good and decent about myself._

He stopped at the corner, letting his shoulders slump. The worst part was, he was no closer to finding Alice. And if Nurse Witless's information was correct (which he was starting to doubt – the old hag would probably say just about anything if she thought it would help turn him against his lo-friend), she was hallucinating even worse than usual, running around the city in a daze. Which meant she could be just about _anywhere_. Again the image of her lying battered and bruised in some ditch assaulted Victor's mind. Was that really destined to be his belov – his _best friend's_ ultimate fate?

 _She got out of Rutledge on her own two feet, despite what everyone thought,_ he reminded himself, rubbing between his eyebrows. _She can get past this. Calm down and think this through logically before you work yourself into an early grave. So there's the strong possibility Alice is seeing things again while she wanders – what exactly does that mean for her? Witless mentioned her talking about a cat – the Cheshire Cat? Does that mean she's back in Wonderland? On the one hand, fighting off monsters from her subconscious has seemed to help her claw back her sanity in the past. On the other. . .doing so out in public, with no knowledge of the real world, means she could very well be a danger to herself. And quite possibly others,_ he allowed, wincing as he thought of Alice slashing and biting at someone in a deluded haze. _Oh dear, poor Alice. . . ._ He started walking again, alight with fresh purpose. _I've got to find her, and soon. I just wish I knew where to start looking!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Flaming Stallion is an easter egg from the game. Alice passes it while chasing the white cat (it's right past Jack Splatter and right before the cutscene), and its name and logo is a reference to Spicy Horse, who developed Alice.


	5. Reassembly Needed, Destruction Not

 

Hatter's Domain

_Click-click-click-click-click-click. . . ._

"I keep expecting the hour to strike for tea. Wouldn't be surprised if it did, honestly – Hatter's relationship with Time has always been uneven."

The clicking overhead ahead continued unabated as the teapot cable car – a product of Hatter Industries, as an interior plaque proudly proclaimed – trundled along its wire. Alice stood right in front of the spout, gazing out the large window at the floating factories that made up the adopted homeland of her (once and possibly still-former) friend. "Hmph – the Hatter's Domain. Almost as I remember it," she murmured, smiling slightly as she marked the familiar tall windows glowing red, the gears and cogs turning and drifting through the sky, and the broken hat-shaped topper resting on the central clock tower. Not the most welcoming place in the world, but not nearly as bad as the Land of Fire and Brimstone – or Queensland. She shuddered as she recalled bricks sculpted of muscle and veins, and blood splashing in the fountains of the castle keep. She'd take toxic green skies and dirty grey walls scribbled with manic words over _that_ any day. Besides, the domain looked to be in somewhat better repair than when she'd last seen it – at least, all hints of Rutledge's influence seemed to be gone. That was good, right?

"Appearances, as you know better than most, can be deceiving, Alice," the Cheshire Cat said in apparent response to her thought, appearing before her in a flash of mottled white and orange light. He lifted a blue-skinned paw toward the window. "Much has changed since your last visit."

Alice eyed the Cat. Was that supposed to have sounded as sinister as he made it? "Dr. Bumby says that change is constructive," she replied, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "That different is good."

Cheshire's expression didn't change, but there was a general stiffening of his posture that suggested he was not convinced by Bumby's words – not that Alice blamed him. She'd rate most of the changes in her life as rather less than constructive. Having to move to Houndsditch in the first place being near the top of the list. "Different denotes neither bad nor good, but it certainly means 'not the same,'" he said, orange eyes flicking left as what looked like a plucked dodo fluttered its way through the sky. "A concept your doctor seems to struggle with, given your frequent complaints about his chosen treatments." Abruptly his face was inches from hers, voice turning dark as his smile gained an extra edge to it. "Find the Hatter, Alice. He knows more about different than you."

Alice stepped back, frowning. Did Cheshire always have to be so bloody ominous? She _knew_ there was something wrong with Wonderland now, thank you very much – no need for the theatrics. She'd allow him the point, though – anyone who'd turned himself into more machine than man (not that Hatter had ever been much of the latter) would have to know more about different than the rest of his kin. And after seeing the Vale of Tears collapse into Ruin-soaked crumbs so close to the wreckage of the Looking-Glass Line, she definitely wanted a talk with Wonderland's premier industrialist. Was he up to his old tricks – back on a quest to turn the world into a mechanical wasteland? Did she have to give him another lesson in good table manners, so to speak? Or was she about to discover that the former haberdasher had fallen to a more lethal power? _I was ready to blame him for the Ruin fountaining out of every crack in the landscape, but – that's not really his style,_ Alice thought, twisting her lips. _He's all about gears and cogs, hats and tea, rockets and steam. Sludge would gunk up all his great works – he'd be more liable to clear it away than spread it around. His Nightmare Spiders were partially constructed from doll heads, yes, but that's hardly enough to convict the man. Automaton. Whatever the bloody hell he is._

_Still, I can't afford to be too hopeful either. Anyone who has the ability to upgrade himself like he can is a dangerous foe. After the Jabberwock and the Queen, he's easily the one who came the closest to killing me. And I don't fancy another round of having the world tilt and spin around me while I'm trying to take him down. Blasted syringes. . . ._ She rubbed her arm with a scowl, before letting her expression soften. _It would be wonderful if he's become a friend again, though. He was nice to talk to, if nothing else. And if the_ Duchess _, of all people, can become an ally after previously attempting to devour me whole –_ "But does he know more about the difference between bad and good?"

_Crack!_

Cheshire and Alice both started, then jerked their heads toward the noise. A Bolterfly was throwing itself against the far left window, fracturing the precious glass barrier. Looking around, Alice could see a whole swarm descending on the car, all flinging themselves at the fragile panes in an attempt to shatter them. "Making friends, Alice?" Cheshire asked, coolly regarding the growing destruction. "You're as randomly lethal and entirely confused as you ever were."

"Would you prefer I act like a certain hobbyist entomologist I know and pull out a sketchbook to record these wretched things for posterity?" The car rocked under the assault, making her stumble. Would the peppercorns of the Duchess's grinder penetrate the glass? On the other hand, that would still result in a broken window, and when you were _this_ high up. . . .

"A certain hobbyist entomologist would be more interested in why you've taken on one of the curious abilities of his ex-wife, I would think," Cheshire retorted, his grin becoming more of a smirk. "Why are you imitating the dead, Alice? I thought you were past wishing to be like them – or is Emily special, for some reason?"

Alice glared at Cheshire as the car shuddered again to the tune of more tiny _cracks!_ She barely had enough patience for his riddles at the best of times – and certainly not when she was under attack. "Useful defense is nothing to be sneezed at," she snapped.

"I never said that. I only suggested most people would not think of a friend's former love and how best to emulate her when threatened by death," Cheshire replied, one ear waggling.

Insufferable feline! "I've managed without you so far, Cat," Alice informed him coldly, flicking her wrist. "Return to whatever hovel's home to you – I'll call if I need you."

Cheshire's grin widened. "Predictably rash. It's not a question of 'if,' Alice, it's 'when,'" he said, smug certainty dripping from his voice. Alice was prevented from taking him down a peg by the sight of the docking station rushing by. Moments later, the leftmost window finally shattered under the Bolterflies' onslaught, letting in the raging swarm. "Now hold on, and, as they say, 'shut up.'"

With that, he was gone. Alice rolled her eyes. "So typical," she muttered, kicking away a hissing Bolterfly before grabbing the nearest handhold and bracing herself.

The car rocketed forward, straight toward what Alice knew had to be the thickest wall in the entire complex. The Bolterflies, sensing danger, scattered just before the spout introduced itself to the green-stained brick. There was a terrific crash, a cloud of black smoke, the scream of metal against metal, and a jolt that sent her tumbling across the out-of-control car. Her head smacked against the steel frame, and all went dark for a minute.

She regained consciousness to find herself sprawled out on a dull grey metal plate suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, a hovering steam jet belching hot air in front of her. Above her head, the shattered remains of the teapot car rested atop what appeared to be an intricately worked girder. Alice pushed herself upright with a wince. "I've made more graceful entrances," she muttered, brushing herself off. "I suppose I should be grateful nothing's – broken. . . ."

She frowned as her vision cleared, allowing her a proper look at her body. What on earth had happened to her dress? Instead of bright blue and white cloth, she was suddenly clad in deep black and brown leather. Her apron had been shortened to a tongue of rivet-edged chocolate, attached to an outside corset held in place with no less than three belts. Another belt stretched up her chest before linking itself to a frilly white collar – the only piece of the outfit that didn't squeak as she moved – securing her omega symbol to her throat. She twisted her head to take in a stiff-veined bow fastened to her back, now sporting a clock instead of a skull, then critically examined a midnight sleeve wrapped in more of those useless belts. "Curiouser and curiouser – but I'll grant that this suits Hatter's Domain better than my other gown," she murmured.

Then the blood drained out of her face as something else occurred to her. "Damn – he wouldn't–" She grabbed her head and felt her hair. No, long as ever, thankfully. "Whew! You see fit to alter my fashion sense, but not to 'fix' the one thing you've complained about most," she commented to herself with a smirk. "Typical Hatter." She looked up at the machinery high above her head, then jumped into the steam jet. "Let's see if there's anything else still typical about you."

* * *

_Turn valve –_ The stiff metal wheel groaned under her hands _– receive steam._

Alice smiled as the requested steam jet appeared, hovering at the far end of the checkered platform. _Fortunate that my mind does not hate me enough to leave me stranded out here,_ she thought, jogging toward the billowing white flow. _Maybe now I'll_ finally _be able to penetrate Hatter's factories and see if he knows anything. Funny – after being literally dropped into the middle of this domain on my last visit, I never thought it would be this hard to get inside._ She sighed. _Then again, there's a good chance he's_ trying _to keep me out of his sanctum. My hopes of him being friendly seem more ill-founded by the second. . .but I really should reserve judgment until I see him face-to-face._

She paused at the edge of the platform and scanned the area around her, mentally going over her path. Jump into the steam jet, float over to that – gear? Cog? She'd never been quite sure of the difference – that kept raising and lowering, leap over to that other bit of broken floor floating randomly in the middle of the sky, jump again to the hole roughly smashed out of the wall of the nearest building, then cross her fingers and pray that it actually led–

Wait. She could see something shimmering atop the tiny red light mounted on a girder to the right of the cog (or gear). Alice backed up and squinted at it. It was – a crystal butterfly! _Victor! I wasn't expecting a memory from him here,_ she thought with a smile. _Then again, I wasn't expecting any from Lizzie either, and Wonderland just saw fit to present me with one. A rather extraneous one, granted – did I really need a reminder about how open and gentle her heart was?_ She shrugged and leapt into the steam. _No matter – time for a little detour on my journey._

Her skirt billowed out around her like a parachute, supporting her over the column of hot air. Alice bit back a giggle – much as having to take the long way around Hatter's Domain made her want to gnash her teeth at times, it was almost worth it for the chance to fly on the wings of steam again. _I wonder if Victor would want to draw me as an angel if he saw me now, in all my black-clad glory?_ she thought, spinning in place to face the light. _Or would he just want to see if he could fly too? Not that I could blame him – this is my favorite part of all this._ She pushed herself forward, drifting out of the flow – then, right before gravity could reassert control, flexed her knees and jumped.

For a split-second, the air went solid under her feet. Then she was floating again, coasting through the sky on a cushion of jewel-colored feathers and glowing butterflies. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the freedom of almost-flight. Perhaps this was more limited than being a bird or bat with proper wings, but she'd take it none the less. Not that she had much of a choice, given that the outer edges of the domain was nothing but floating chunks of checkered floor, slowly spinning hunks of machinery, and dangling pieces of oversized cutlery, all suspended in a field of endless, bottomless green. She'd have died five times over if she hadn't been gifted with this amazing skirt. Still, even if the power was hers only as a matter of necessity, she was going to enjoy it to the fullest. When one was fighting this hard for her peace of mind, one had to take her pleasures where she could find them.

Her boots touched down atop the light. Alice opened her eyes, flicked the hair out of her face, then leaned forward and touched the butterfly.

_"'Earn Your Keep.' Hmph. One would think Dr. Bumby had ulterior motives in placing this right in front of my–"_

_BANG!_

_Alice nearly jumped out of her skin, sending the sampler she'd been trying to straighten swinging madly from its nail. She slapped it hard against the wallpaper to stop it falling before darting into the foyer. Victor was stumbling through the front doors, coughing and wheezing like he'd gone back in time and convinced his younger self to take up the pipe. "Victor!"_

_She rushed forward to support him. "Take it easy – deep breaths now," she counseled, patting his back. Bloody hell, he was the exact same shade of ugly grey as the ash in the fireplace. "Are you all right? Why don't you sit down. . . ."_

_Victor let her lower him into a chair, still gasping for breath. Alice hovered over him as he struggled to speak, wondering if it would be necessary to fetch Dr. Bumby – or even a real doctor. The poor boy looked about ready to faint._ _**"Oh – the smog today is just awful!"** _ _he eventually choked out, leaning heavily on his knees._ _**"I don't know how anyone can stand it. How do the people here** _ **do** _**it, Alice? Who would** _ **want** _**to live in a city when it's so smelly and dirty?"** _

Alice grimaced, rubbing her throat in sympathy. "Search me, Victor," she mumbled as the memory dissipated. "If I had my way, I'd be out in the country – as far from London as I could possibly get. And I know you'd be right by my side." She snorted. "Oh hell, let's be honest – you'd be two miles ahead of me and speeding away." She'd always thought no one could hate the city as much as her, but Victor – oh, he utterly _despised_ it. All her complaints about Whitechapel were magnified tenfold in his mind. He'd started to acclimatize himself to the grime and slime and crime as the months went on, but it hadn't stopped his griping at all. _Although I'd guess that at least some of his loathing is misplaced hate toward his parents for making him move there,_ she hypothesized. _Entirely justified misplaced hate, of course. If I ever met a person who said they_ enjoyed _living in Whitechapel, I'd wonder if they'd recently escaped from Rutledge._

_I wonder what he's doing while I'm gallivanting about here?_

Alice pursed her lips, staring thoughtfully out at the yellowy-green horizon. She hadn't considered such a question before, too busy with others, but now that he was on her mind. . . _I miss him,_ she realized. She missed the comforting presence of his body at her side, taking the corners and lanes with her. The wide-open spaces of Wonderland were a great improvement over the cramped streets of Whitechapel, but. . .they were also much lonelier. "Look what you've done to me – it used to be that I didn't care if I had anybody nearby to converse with as I went," she mock-scolded his memory. "What would you make of the Hatter's Domain, Victor? I know it's not much to look at–" she took a deep sniff "– but it certainly smells better than Whitechapel. Must be a side effect of having freshly-brewed tea as a fuel source rather than coal and wood." She smirked as a thought came to her. "Easier on your lungs, but hardly as good for your stomach, I bet."

As if in response, her own belly let out a rather pitiful-sounding growl. "Hush, you," she told it. "It may smell good, but I wouldn't trust anything from Hatter's tea table until I was sure it was both poison- and mercury-free. And that none of the cutlery or teacups were going to attack me."

Her stomach either didn't or wouldn't grasp the dangers of eating tainted food with murderous utensils and growled again. Alice jabbed it with a finger. "Hush or I'll tighten the belts on this new corset and give you something to growl about."

Silence. Alice smirked again. "Much better. At least I have that much control over myself." She gazed out across the landscape (airscape?), at the hole she'd been aiming for. "And who knows," she added, springing into space and twirling to reach the gear (or cog) before it lowered again. "Perhaps Hatter does too. Wonder if he'd be willing to give me the answers I seek if I promised to attend a tea party. . . ."

* * *

One of the things Alice hated about the human brain, and her brain in particular, was its tendency to associate certain innocent objects and events with rather less-pleasant ones. White sheets with her bed in Rutledge, for example. Old keys with Bumby's hypnosis sessions. Red-and-white stripes with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.

Or, like at the current moment, the front door of her house with her first fight with the Jabberwock. She glared at the portal before her – familiar white wood tarnished with gray ash, flames leaping behind the decorative iron flowers in the window, LIDDELL written in charred letters across the top. What it was doing here, set into a pile of old junk cogs and springs in the depths of the Lost and Found, she couldn't say. But it was there nonetheless – and, annoyingly, appeared to be the only way forward in this maze of clockwork and steam. "Come on, Alice," she scolded herself. "You mustn't dillydally. You _saw_ the Jabberwock's skeleton blow away on the breeze. He's not a threat anymore. And this – it's just a door. It can't hurt you."

Her right hand ached from a long-healed wound, reminding her that yes, when the door was on fire and the knob blazing hot, it _could_ hurt you, and very well. She sighed. "I'm wearing gloves this time – well, most of a glove," she corrected herself, wiggling her bare fingers. "And there's metaessence galore in all those boxes and barrels scattered about. I can heal myself in moments. We've barely started our journey – there's no point in stopping _now_."

Evil yellow eyes, thick sharp claws, a boiling furnace that poured out streams of flaming death – Alice shook the image away. "He's _gone_. I can't spend my life afraid of something I've already defeated." She squared her shoulders. "And if anything like him lurks behind that door, it'll have to face my Blade and my Grinder, and fall like all the rest." As encouraged as she could possibly get under the circumstances, she stepped forward and grabbed the knob, twisting it quickly and wrenching it open to reveal –

_The library._

_Alice stared as she stepped inside. The room was just as she remembered it, back in happier times. Shelves on almost every wall, filled practically to bursting with books old and new. Papa's photography equipment, lovingly spread out over a nearby table, filling the air with a chemical stench. Toys scattered across floor and chairs (including a jack-in-the-box – that explained a lot about where the Jackbomb had come from). The family portrait at the head of the room, showing all four Liddells in their Sunday best. And beneath that – the fireplace, blazing away to chase off the early November chill. Alice swallowed as she took it all in, only too aware of how little effort it would take to turn pleasing heat into a raging inferno. A single malignant spark, as her mother had said. . . . **"** **Our lovely library was a fire trap. A conflagration waiting to happen!** **"**_

_. . .Which I already knew, so why on earth are we belaboring the point?_

Alice put her hands on her hips, letting out a frustrated growl as the memory faded back into darkness, leaving only the flame-licked door behind her. Wonderland was playing games, and she didn't like it. Why dress up such a simple reminder so? She'd just _had_ a memory from Mama about how dangerous her father's "unnatural devotion to printed paper" was to them. Granted, Lorina's tone had been more jocular, equally a playful complaint about her husband's hoarding habits and a hidden warning to be careful when in the room, but still. It had delivered the same message. What had been so special about this brief image that it warranted further dressing up from the little crystal house? Was there a clue she was supposed to have seen – a little thing out of place that hinted at the true cause of the fire? But everything had seemed in order. . . . _If you want me to get to the bottom of things, Wonderland, you have to give me more than that!_

Well, at least she hadn't had to shed any blood in her family home this time around. She turned and opened the door again. More heaps of rusty junk greeted her eyes – but they were different heaps this time, at least. Apparently she'd been taken just that bit closer to the Hatter. _Which_ _is the absolute_ least _Wonderland can do to help_ _– oh damn!_

She burst into butterflies, just barely avoiding the steaming, oozing hand. The Insidious Ruin flapped its china jaw and waddled after her. Alice turned and sliced it to ribbons with the Blade, but more were already forming, thick black puddles rising up through the junk. . .she darted around the trash piles, trying to keep track of them all without taking a hit. Two – three – four – five – "Ah!"

She stumbled, pinwheeling her arms wildly as she teetered at the edge of a sudden drop. The Ruins (two more, seven now, she'd never faced so many at once) took advantage of her distress and charged. Alice butterflied out of the way again, but a straggler managed to sear her side as she reformed. She went to slash its hand off, only to be knocked off-balance by one of its friends scorching her back. And then another rammed into her, sending her to hands and knees. . .she butterflied once more, looking for free space, but they just followed, an inescapable black wall of pain. . .she got her feet, but another hand came out and she was stumbling backward again, terrifyingly close to the edge. . .a leap took her over them, but they turned with distressing speed. . .one tore at her hair, another grabbed her arm, and she couldn't get to one without opening herself up to another. . .it hurt, it hurt, it all hurt so much. . .so much pain, so much fear, so much – so much –

So much _anger_. Her jaw clenched as the Ruins kept up their attack, chipping away at her life bit by bit. She could have returned to the Home by now. She could have just gotten the stupid pills and been back in time for lunch. She could have found a book to read, or told another story to the children, or gone for a walk with Victor. She could have even been doing more chores like a _normal_ person. But no, Wonderland couldn't let her have that, could it? It had to drag her away from reality and torture her with happy memories gone sour and never give her a straight answer to any of her questions and _try to bloody goddamn KILL HER EVERY TIME SHE TRIED TO PROGRESS –_ Her entire body throbbed with pain, and it was too much, too much, _too MUCH –_

The scream exploded out of her throat, a shockwave of sound that sent the Ruins flying back. Moments later, her Blade was in her hand, and she was slicing and dicing with a fervor she hadn't felt since the last time she'd been hit with a Ragebox. _"How fine you look when dressed in rage,"_ Cheshire purred across her memory, and she did, she was a goddess of destruction in black and white and _red_ and the Ruins were screaming, doll heads tumbling into the abyss, pipes and pulleys crashing to the ground, and it was all _glorious_ she could do this forever kill and _kill and KILL –_

And then, suddenly, brown and gray and brass were back in her vision, and she had no idea how she was even staying upright.

She braced herself against a junk heap, looking around. Not a Ruin to be seen, but a whole field of metaessence roses, glittering in the dim light leaking through the ceiling. Alice collected the nearest, shaking as it broke apart into red mist and soothed her pain. She was glad that the threat was gone, but – how was she _capable_ of such intense fury? Had some somehow managed to internalize that horrible sprayed poison from the boxes? Or was that rage just an essential part of her being? _I know I can be moody, and snappish, and just plain mean, but. . .oh God, I hope I haven't hurt anyone in reality._ She wiped the sweat from her forehead. _P_ _robably just proved all those doctors who liked to call me "hysterical" right. . .actually, thinking about_ _it_ _, "Hysteria" wouldn't be a bad name for that. . . ._

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. _It's over with now,_ she thought as she circled around the battlefield, touching each rose in turn to regain her strength. _And to be fair, it got me out of a very bad situation just now. Hopefully it only triggers when I'm that near death. And, doubly hopefully, only here in Wonderland. Otherwise. . . ._

She didn't want to finish that thought. She picked up the last rose and brushed off her skirts. "Over and done with," she repeated. "And I don't think Wonderland would keep me if I'd actually killed someone. Just have to keep a close leash on it." She ran her fingers through her hair. "Come on. You'll feel better when you find Hatter." _I hope._

* * *

_So – this is the heart of the Lost & Found. Or, rather, the Dump This Here & Forget About It. I hope those crayon scribbles have continued to steer me right. . . ._

Alice splashed her way into the large room, appraising it with a disgusted look. As befitted the main chamber of a glorified garbage heap, it was the worst mess she'd seen yet. Piles of melted cogs, gears, and other bits of metal waste loomed over her head in strange statuary. Old forgotten barrels filled with rancid tea lined walls that were slowly giving way to rust. Stagnant water stood in greenish pools on the pitted, uneven floor. This was a place where no creature would willingly spend any time at all – and yet, straight ahead, propped up against the largest mountain of trash and muttering to himself about "bad dreams" and "blasted good nights," was the subject of her search – the Hatter.

Well – _part_ of the Hatter. Alice's steps slowed as she neared the pile. What was in front of her was nothing more than the Hatter's head. It looked about the same as she remembered – green skin, jagged teeth, overlarge ears and nose – but it terminated at the neck. He didn't even have his hat! _What on earth has happened to the rest of him?_ Scanning the pile revealed his torso sitting not too far to the left, still bound in the white canvas of a straitjacket – or, well, what one could have of a straitjacket without sleeves. His limbs were nowhere to be seen, however, with only the plugs for where arms and legs connected to his body proving they existed. Frowning, she reached down and picked up his head (lighter than she expected – perhaps he really didn't have a brain, like she'd always quietly suspected). "Hatter, I recall leaving you in a decrepit condition – but not in pieces."

"What? What?!" His yellow eyes popped open, darting all around before finally focusing on her. "Oh, it's you," he grumbled, tone deeply derisive. "Took you long enough!"

Alice decided to ignore his lack of gratitude – there were bigger fish to fry. "What's happened here?" she asked, turning his head gently to and fro in her hands. It was a pretty sorry sight. His skin was speckled all over with cuts and bruises, and one ear was nearly split in half. Yet it was still the fact that his bald pate was uncovered that disturbed her most. "You've lost your hat! And some – parts – are missing," she added awkwardly. She knew she should be more concerned over the fact that Hatter had been torn into pieces, but – well, he seemed to be surviving well enough just as he was. The fact that his hat had disappeared to parts unknown, however – _that_ sent chills down her spine. What sort of calamity could result in someone as powerful as the Hatter being deprived of his namesake chapeau?

"Missing indeed," Hatter agreed, his teeth scraping the buckles of her corset. "Though things being what they are, I barely miss their missing!" he added, sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as Alice.

Alice wasn't fooled. "Wouldn't say no to a bevy of cockroaches to carry you around, I think," she commented, carrying him over to his torso. "Let's get you settled a bit more comfortably." She fitted the neck into the top plug, releasing him once she heard it click into place. "Better?"

Hatter wiggled his head a few times. "Some," he allowed, then scowled at her. "Now, as for what's happened – you should know that better than I! It's your place, after all! I know my place!"

Alice put her hands on her hips, wondering why everyone – particularly people who were well-known for upsetting the Queen of Hearts and getting themselves thrown in jail by the White King and Queen – had to lecture her. What was wrong with some friendly conversation once in a while? _You've spoiled me, Victor, you really have._ "When did you _ever_ know your place? Or how to keep it?" she retorted. "Now what's going on?"

_WHOOORRRRRRRRR!_

Alice's head jerked toward the ceiling as the room vibrated violently. _What the_ – _was that a whistle, or –_

"Aaahhhhh! That's going on!" Hatter cried, eyes wide and upset. "And around, and up and down, in my ears, through my eyes, up my nostrils, down my gullet and writhing in my guts!"

That – sounded a lot like something she'd said to Papa once at the Waterloo train station. And that noise, a high-pitched shriek over a low roar – it _did_ remind her of a steam engine. Were Hatter's factories rebuilding the Looking-Glass Line, then? Had she managed to get herself all worked up over nothing?

But. . .Hatter wouldn't be getting this flustered over something so innocent. Not to mention that had been no ordinary roar. That had been a tortured screech of metal and steam, a sick perversion of the sound her sweet little train had made. No – if the Looking-Glass Line was being rebuilt, it was being rebuilt in a form Alice didn't think would pass muster. "Papa was exceedingly fond of trains," she commented with a frown. "I don't like them much."

"You won't like this one at all," Hatter informed her, brow furrowed. "Nothing like when Mock Turtle was in charge of the Looking-Glass Line. This railroad's a bloody shambles! The stink is ferocious; light blinding; noise hellacious–"

"Ah, quite, Hatter," Alice said quickly, cutting him off before he could really get going. "I get the idea. A bad train. But what do we do about it? You can't even get up–"

There was a clanking from inside the wall, then a mechanical arm (like a stripped-down version of Hatter's own missing limbs) suddenly popped out and grasped Hatter by the cog embedded in his back, lifting him high into the air. Alice stepped back, startled. _Oh – maybe what I said just now summoned it? Seems logical. . .but then again, trying to apply_ that _to this world tends to just drive one madder. At least I won't have to haul him around with me._

Hatter himself barely seemed to notice his change in position. "The world is upside-down, Alice!" he whined. "Inmates run the asylum – no offense," he added hastily as Alice gave him a look. "And worst of all–" His eyes squinted, as if attempting to contain tears. "I'm left _tea-less_!"

"Tragic," Alice responded in the blandest voice she could muster. Of course _that_ would be the only thing he cared about. Typical idiot. Why had she come to this forsaken dump to find him again?

On the other hand. . .she finally had a hint as to what was happening. For all his instability, Hatter had been the first to give her some real information. Even if he wasn't exactly a friend, he neither appeared to be a foe. Maybe if she completed the work she'd started. . . . "If I do help, will you help me in return?"

"Cross my heart! If I had one," Hatter amended. "Find my limbs and toss them into the chutes! Machines will do the rest." He gave her what passed for a smile with him. "Be on your way now, that's a good girl! Heh-ha! – best way out is through the clock face."

"Clock face?" Alice craned her head. Beyond jagged, dagger-like clock hands and dangling rusted chains was a ceiling made of glass, marked with the hours in Roman numerals. The symbol for mercury glowed crimson in the center, hauntingly familiar. "Are we below where you tried to _kill_ me last time?!"

"No – where I intended to disable you and turn you into a mechanical creature much like myself," Hatter corrected, although he had the sense to sound embarrassed about it.

"Yes, because that's so much better."

"I'm past that now, Alice, I swear! I promise not to harm one strand of that overly-long hair of yours. And you'll have quite a bit of trouble getting to the source of the problem without me. I'm the only one who can get you to Assemblage (or Destruction) As Needed! That wonderful skirt of yours may allow you to traverse small gaps, but my legs could cross a canyon in a single bound!" he proclaimed proudly.

"I'll hold you to that," Alice informed him, crossing her arms. "Who has your limbs, anyway?"

"Who else? March and Dormy!"

"The March Hare and the Dormouse?" Alice blinked, trying to process that. The March and Dormy she'd known had been rather silly creatures, more prone to overdosing on scones and sugar than violently tearing friends apart. Even when she'd come across them in Hatter's lab, strapped to horrific torture devices and transformed into wretched half-mechanical chimera, Dormy's main complaint had been the lack of refreshments. Them suddenly staging a coup and leaving their best friend to rot in the bowels of his own factories was – different, to say the least.

"The very same! I thought we were getting along rather well in the wake of the Queen's passing. I'd given them some lovely upgrades, all the tea they could drink, all the riddles they could answer. . . ." Hatter sighed, eyes downcast. "It was almost like old times." His brow crinkled with anger. "And then they suddenly came storming in one day talking about 'new regime' this and 'forget the past' that – forget the past, bah! They didn't seem too keen to forget when they tore me to pieces! I _told_ Dormy that the rat tail was all I had, and that I'd give it some fluff when I had the chance–"

Alice stared down at her feet as Hatter ranted on. "Forget the past?" she echoed softly. Well, it appeared two Wonderlanders had embraced Dr. Bumby's favorite philosophy. It didn't seem to be doing them much good, however. Certainly hadn't done _Hatter_ much good. _Just another reason to doubt the good doctor's effectiveness. Or maybe March and Dormy are applying it wrong – they'd be the sort to mix it all up. . . ._ "Where can I find them?" she asked, turning her attention back to her friend.

"And I said that monocle – what? Oh. The March Hare is ruining my hard work in Cranking Up & Pressing Down, while the Dormouse is making a mess of Smelling & Regurgitating," Hatter growled, then frowned. "Or is it the other way around?" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter – visit either you like first. They're both mad as monkey mash!"

"Right," Alice sighed. Her eternal destiny – to go among mad people. "And how exactly _do_ I get out through the clock face?"

"The elevator, of course!" Hatter cried, jerking his head left and right to indicate little alcoves in the garbage, both screened in by sheets of scrap metal. Alice could see a large steel pillar in one and a pressure pad in the other through the gaps. "Just weigh down the pad to call it, then unweigh the pad to uncall it! Easy as 3.14159265359!"

Alice was about to ask how on earth she was supposed to do that _and_ take the elevator at the same time when the faintest outline of shimmering purple caught her eye on the outer wall of the pad's alcove. One hiccup and a brief loss of height later, the image of a mechanical rabbit clutching a watch was revealed to her. Aha – another use for those strange clockwork "bunny bombs" she'd collected on the way down here. "I see," she said, returning to her normal size and summoning the suggested implement. "I suppose I should thank you for these," she added to Hatter, holding it up. "They've been most useful in breaking through blocked passages. I don't know why they ended up in the junk piles with you."

"March must have been upset they didn't look like him. But aren't they lovely? If only the White Rabbit had gotten a chance to see them," Hatter said, all pride. "Well, that's up to you now. Go on, you're wasting Time! And he doesn't like that now any more than he did in the past."

"I don't like it either." Alice set the first rabbit against the sheets of old grating wedged in front of the pressure pad and set it hopping. Moments later, all that was left of both blockage and bomb were a few screws on the floor. She smirked over at Hatter as she set the second to clear the path to the elevator. "But I'm afraid you'll just have to hang around until I'm done."

"Oh, very funny," Hatter muttered. "Just get my limbs so we can put paid to these usurpers!"

* * *

"Nooo! My precious domain! And the guests! All I really wanted was another tea party. . . ."

Alice gaped as Hatter knelt down by the bodies of the March Hare and the Dormouse, cradling them to his chest. What the hell was he on about? Not a minute ago he'd declared vehemently that those two _deserved_ to die for being the "destroyers of Wonderland!" For God's sake, _he'd_ been the one to smash their giant automaton and kill them! (Which annoyed her just a pinch – _she_ was the one who'd had to avoid being dissolved like a sugar cube in boiling tea and pounded flat as a pancake by steel fists. She'd wanted to be the one to give them a taste of their own medicine – been itching for it. Though, admittedly, she wasn't sure how she would have taken care of that monstrous amalgamation of their domains. . . .) And now he wanted to stay here and mourn their fallen foes while Assembly (or Destruction) As Required fell down around their ears?! She'd been capable of changing moods on a dime back in the asylum, but this – this took the cake. _How much mercury leaked into that brain of his during his years as an actual hatter?_

Not to mention there was the matter of the train to consider. She'd only gotten a glimpse of Wonderland's new rail line as it pulled out of the factory, but what she'd seen had not been encouraging. The train had looked more like a row of corrupted cathedrals, elegant arched metal painted black as night and stained glass windows glowing red as hot coals as they'd thundered past. Streams of fire had leeched from the engine, licking at the sides of the monstrosity and sending her pulse racing. The smoke and ash that had poured from the stack had had the very stench of Hell itself. And as it had chugged out into the cloudy night, Alice had sworn she'd seen Ruin dripping from its undercarriage. An "infernal train" she'd called it, and there were no better words for such a horror. Something like that could only hurt her precious Wonderland – and now it was loose in her head! And the only three people who could tell her anything about how to stop it were dead, dead, and obliviously suicidal! "Please, Hatter, you promised!" she yelled above the sound of falling beams and hissing steam, trying to get her ally's attention. "Where is that train going? What's its purpose? Tell me – _now_!"

Hatter glared at her as he extracted a teacup from somewhere in the depths of his gigantic hat, recently reclaimed from the trash heaps. "There's no time for – whatever it is you want to talk about," he declared, then grinned. "It's time for tea! Talk trains with Turtle, he ran the Looking-Glass Line." Before Alice could reply, he turned away again, clearing his throat. "Come on, you lot!" he cried to the broken corpses splayed across his lap. "We can still be friends! I've got a fine Darjeeling – drink, drink!"

It was pathetic, the way he shoved the cup against their unresponsive lips. "Why do you _want_ to have another tea party with them?" Alice demanded, fists balled. "They tore you to bits and left you to rot in the deepest recesses of the Lost  & Found! Or have you taken that advice you loathed about 'forgetting the past' to heart all of a sudden?"

Hatter ignored her, dumping hot tea over the Dormouse's limp whiskers. "Come along, Dormy, that always used to get you up in a jiffy!"

"They're _dead_ , Hatter!" Alice screamed, losing all patience at last. "And we will be too if we don't escape! Perhaps you don't care, but I do! Wonderland's in danger again, and I must save it!"

Hatter shot her a look over his shoulder. "Now see here, your young man's told you many times that the dead can get up and walk again!"

"My–" Alice blinked. "He's not my–" Well, she guessed he _was_ , in a way, but – no, getting off track Alice! "Victor's a sweet boy, but there's some admitted questions about his sanity–"

"As if you're one to judge," Hatter pointed out. Alice inclined her head, forced to give him the point. "And don't say he's not your young man – what if it was him here? I'd be more polite if you wanted to spend your last minutes in his company!"

"He wouldn't – if he'd been trying to murder me – if it was a matter of life and death–"

But deep inside, she knew Hatter had got her. What if it _was_ Victor lying there, limp and cold and – She bit her lip, trying not to picture it. When that didn't work, she instead tried to picture him up and about, just with a blue tinge to his skin and perhaps a few bones sticking out here and there. That – didn't help much either. Either way he was dead, and. . .could she really just leave him there? Could she run away without taking even a fraction of a second to say goodbye?

Hatter smirked. "And you always told _me_ it was rude to make personal remarks."

"In my defense, Victor has never tried to kill me," Alice shot back, annoyance surging through her. How dare Hatter make her show weakness! Especially at a time like this! "Nor would I ever be his murderer." She swallowed, softening her voice. Yelling was getting her nowhere – she had to get him to see sense before it was too late. "Hatter, my memories are shattered. I'm trying to collect the pieces – and I now believe the train impedes me," she added, repressing a shiver. If that grotesque locomotive was indeed the true source of the Ruin. . .well. There was no time to waste in catching up and reducing it down to scrap metal. "You must help me – you promised!"

Hatter, however, was unmoved. "Ask the one who 'helps them who help themselves,'" he informed her, turning away. "Whoever that is."

Alice was just opening her mouth to either plead with or yell at him again when a ceiling girder snapped and fell, crushing the unfortunate hatmaker and his 'guests.' It was quickly followed by a rain of bits and bobs from all over the domain – one of Dormy's sleepy teapots (still not looking quite awake), a pounding fist from March's domain, half a factory sign with the letters glowing bright pink. . . . Alice shielded her head from the onslaught, turning to run back the way they'd come – only to find it already blocked by debris. "Oh, _perfect. . . ._ "

The air filled with the smell of tea leaves as lava-hot liquid began to flood the factory, pouring in from whatever remained of Smelling & Regurgitating. Alice tried to climb the pile of junk forming in front of her to escape, only to be chased back down by a piece of checkered floor nearly taking off her head. She glared at the hidden remains of the Hatter as the tea lapped at her boots. "Very pithy," she spat. "He deserved to die."

_"I knew that goblet was filled with poison. I could have saved him. I didn't. Because I felt he deserved to die."_

Alice bit her lip as Victor's voice echoed across her memory. That had been a recent confession, about how Lord Barkis had met his end. Victor had admitted it to her as a secret shame of his, and she'd reassured him that he'd done nothing wrong in her eyes by letting the nobleman kill himself. The bastard was a thieving murderer the world was better off without. Was Hatter really in the same league? He _had_ helped her figure out at least a little of what was going on. . .but then, on her last visit here, he'd tried to murder her, and performed horrific experiments on his friends! Except – well, she'd killed him first, and March and Dormy had more than gotten their own back by the look of things here. And they'd all been guests at the tea party the night of the fire – it had been their screams that had helped her wake up before the flames reached her room. . .oh, she was being unfair, letting her temper get the best of her again. . . .

Unfortunately, she didn't have time to regret her moment of derision for long – the tea was now at her neck. She kicked her feet and paddled her arms, trying frantically to keep above the surface, but it just kept rising and rising, faster than she could swim. _Is this how it ends?_ she wondered as the liquid finally swallowed her head. _With me drowning in tea – in ignorance?_

Then everything went black.


	6. Seeking Out A Mangled Mermaid

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

7:32 A.M.

"Alice! Oh dear. . . ."

Victor hugged himself as he stumbled through the maze of docks and warehouses that clustered around this stretch of the Thames. This had to be the most miserable morning to be out and about in a decade. The air was as cold as the grave, the sky shrouded in clouds as black as midnight, and the rain was just pelting down, drenching him from head to toe. _Why didn't I borrow Alice's umbrella before coming here?_ he thought, rubbing his arms rapidly to try and force some warmth into them. _At least then I wouldn't be soaked on top of everything else._

Well, it was too late for such regrets now. He blinked the water out of his eyes, then turned in a circle, checking every nook and cranny for any sign of life. "ALICE!" he called again, stretching his voice to its limit. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

No answer. Thoroughly dejected, Victor squished his way over to a nearby building, taking what shelter he could under its overhanging roof. _Almost a week with no sign of her,_ he thought, watching the rain pour down in sheets as he wrung out his tie. _How did she manage to get herself so lost? I know her mind's in shambles right now, but really. . . . Maybe I shouldn't have scared off Witless – she knew Alice in the asylum, she could have been a lead into this labyrinth. Then again, it's rather more likely she would have plied me with information I already knew in exchange for a fresh source of drink money. . . ._ He wiped his face with a soggy sleeve. _Dr. Bumby's not going to be pleased with me._

Of course, it wasn't like he was in the doctor's good books right now anyway. Dr. Bumby was probably the only person in the Home taking Alice's disappearance worse than himself. His initial report on her vanishing had been met with a look of shock so intense that he'd half-expected Bumby's jaw to unhinge itself. And with each day that passed without her returning, the psychiatrist got angrier and angrier. He was sharper with the children, more irritable with strangers, and particularly nasty to Victor. The young man got the feeling that Dr. Bumby considered Alice heading off to parts unknown to be somehow _his_ fault – like he'd encouraged her to run away simply to spite the doctor. _As if wandering the streets of Whitechapel was any better a cure than your pills!_ Victor thought with a frustrated groan. They'd been snapping and sniping at each other all week from mutual anxiety, making life at the Home even harder to bear than usual. Things had at last come to a head yesterday afternoon after tea:

 _"You_ still _haven't found her?"_

_"No, sir," Victor said reluctantly, eyes on the floor. "I went all through Dorset Street, Thrawl, Berners, Wentworth – nothing."_

_"For God's sake – I thought you cared about the girl!" Dr Bumby snapped, chair squeaking as he stood up. "Don't you know the danger she's in? If she's just wandering off to Wonderland, instead of being guided there under controlled conditions, there's no saying_ what _might happen to her. She needs to be found before all my hard work is undone!"_

_"I do understand, sir!" Victor replied, clapping his hands together before him. "I'm just as worried about her as you are! Why do you think I'm spending my days walking what feels like the entire length and breadth of the East End? I'm t-terrified that one day I'm going to come across her lying grievously injured in some trash heap – or worse, find her d-d-ddd–"_

_"Oh come now, Master Van Dort – a man of your particular delusions should be able to say the word 'dead!'" Bumby snarled, slamming a fist on his desk. "Why are you so worried about finding her in that condition, anyway? According to you, all that means is that she's going to be walking around with blue skin!"_

_Victor's jaw dropped, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed almost to slits. "Sir! You know very well that I don't believe the dead can get up and walk whenever they like!" he snapped back, folding his arms. "If she's d-died, then I'm going to be dealing with a corpse, just like the rest of you! One that just l-lies there and. . .and. . . ."_

_He stopped, unable to continue. The image conjured up by his brain was much too sad. Dr. Bumby's face softened slightly. "My apologies, Victor – the stress is getting to me," he said, dropping back into his chair. "But there are worse fates for her than death lurking out there, if we can't get her back into my pos – my_ care _soon. We're at the very edges of a major breakthrough regarding her Wonderland. She's almost ready to finally let go of the past and embrace the future! To see all that time and effort go down the drain because she's lost control of her mind. . . ." He clucked his tongue. "It would be tragic."_

All that time and effort might be what's responsible for her having lost her mind, you horrible man, _Victor thought, but bit back the impulse to actually speak it aloud. Things were unpleasant enough between them already. "Dr. Bumby, this would be so much easier if you'd let me involve the police," he pleaded instead, clasping his hands under his chin. "I don't understand why you don't think them necessary."_

 _"Victor, you must have seen the local officers in action," Dr. Bumby said, rolling his eyes. "They're nothing more than incompetent brutes. The East End is not the favored beat for policemen of any intelligence. All they would do is throw Alice into a cell and traumatize her more. Do you_ want _her to retreat back into catatonia?"_

 _Victor sighed, gaze dropping to his shoes."No, of course not," he mumbled. Much as he loathed to admit it, Bumby had a point. He_ had _seen the local bobbies in action – gossiping over greasy lunches, taking bribes from pimps and prostitutes, and beating up those unfortunate criminals who didn't pose much of a threat to them. Hardly the sort of legal authority you wanted to put your trust in. But. . . . "I'm only one man," he reminded the doctor, glancing up. "I've been doing my best, but – I_ can't _do this on my own. I need help. Wouldn't the risk of a few hours in a cell be worth knowing she was safe and sound?"_

 _"I wouldn't expect someone not trained in my field of expertise to understand how delicate her mental state really is," Bumby replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Especially not someone whose own mental state is in question. Besides, I can assure you that you're not my only searcher. I've built up quite a web of connections in this neighborhood, and I'm putting them to good use. I'd just expected you to be the most competent, given your –_ affection _for Alice."_

_Did he really have to say "affection" like it was a dirty word? "Still, sir, it's been almost a week," Victor pointed out. "We can't keep this matter from the police forever. It could reflect badly on the Home if they hear about this from someone else."_

_Bumby sighed. "An unfortunate truth," he allowed. "If she's not returned in the next couple of days, I suppose we must allow those layabouts to do their duty." Then he glowered at Victor. "But I'm hoping you'll prove yourself useful and find her before then!"_

_Well, Doctor, it looks like I'll be getting that help after all,_ Victor thought as the memory dissolved. _I'm sorry I wasn't useful enough, I really am._ He pushed his limp hair back from his forehead. _Ugh_ _– why did everything have to take such a sudden, sharp turn downhill at the end of August? I thought she was doing well! No need for pills, or extra sessions, or anything else like that. Yes, she saw things, but she had a good sense of what was real and what wasn't! She could function amongst society – and probably do a better job of it than me. I wanted things to go on as they were – or better yet, for her to conquer the worst of her delusions, for me to finally exhaust Bumby's patience and find a job and a place of my own, and for both of us to march straight out of that Home hand in hand._

Now there was a happy daydream. Victor closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to indulge. They'd make their goodbyes in the front foyer, luggage by their feet – a couple of suitcases for him, a small bag for her. The children would see them off with a bevy of smart remarks, coupled with grudging admissions that they would be missed (if only for their entertainment value). Dr. Bumby would shake their hands and wish them Godspeed, even as he muttered under his breath how he was _sure_ he could still "cure" them given more time – and Alice would probably overhear and reply with something politely mocking his skills as a psychiatrist. Then they'd open up the big double doors and pick up their things, giving their former 'roommates' some final farewells. . .he'd offer her his arm as they proceeded down the steps, and she'd take it with a smile. . .and then he'd help her into the cab before directing the driver off to their new and wonderful life. . . .

Victor sighed deeply, opening his eyes. Oh, he wanted that to be reality more than anything else in the world. But he knew deep in his heart such a scene would never come true, even if Alice miraculously reappeared fully recovered and ready to go. The Home was a special place, where the rules of society were considered a bit more flexible on account of the residents being mad. "Normal" men and women simply didn't live together unless they were married, related, or ready to be called nasty (and possibly hypocritical) names by the rest of the populace. The very thought of him rooming with a young single lady (especially one like Alice) would send his mother into a fit of hysterics. He and Alice already had enough trouble with the residents of the East End throwing insults and suppositions at them – they didn't need any further annoyance from those of the upper crust as well. And he didn't _dare_ ask her to marry him. He'd already seen how horribly things went when he was betrothed sight unseen by his parents – how much worse would him actually _proposing_ go? London would likely vanish into a sudden sinkhole, or be reduced to rubble by meteors before he could get more than the first few words out. Besides, he knew that Alice didn't – couldn't – feel the same way about him as he did about her. She was brave and vital, survivor of a thousand agonies, a warrior in her own mind, and he – he was the rich man's son who'd never suffered a day in his life before the incident with Emily. They were just too different.

But even with all that, his heart couldn't help but hope. She was his best friend, after all – the first woman to tolerate his company since Victoria had been dragged away. Perhaps, one day, her feelings would deepen much like his had? After all this madness had been chased from her mind? He closed his eyes again and pictured her as she'd been shortly before "radical treatments" had seemingly stripped away her sanity. Those bright eyes, like glowing emeralds. . .that dark hair, falling in tangled waves to her shoulders. . .those pink lips, so often home to a sly smirk. . .and, rarely, that more genuine smile she seemed to give to him and him alone. . . .

He shook his head hard, dismissing the image. _Stop that,_ he scolded himself. _You do not have time to get lost in romantic daydreams. You need to find Alice._ His shoulders slumped. _If she's even findable at this point._

The main trouble was, Alice had proved to be a master at giving people the slip. Most of the residents of the East End he'd accosted for information hadn't been able to help him at all. And those who _had_ seen her hadn't given him promising reports. Like Mr. Hardwicke, the local butcher, who'd said Alice had wandered by his stall and regarded him suspiciously:

_"Accused me of wanting to eat her, then asked me why I didn't season my own pig parts. Before I could ask what in the devil's name she was going on about, she grabbed something invisible off the counter, said it seemed a serviceable grinder indeed, then ran around the chopping block and off behind our little shack. Didn't see where she went after that. Sorry, Master Van Dort. Fresh pork pie? Guarantee it's all meat!"_

Or the owner of Brann's Beans coffee shop, who'd complained that Alice had caused quite a mess in his store:

 _"Yelled at me, 'I won't be boiled today, Dormouse!' and then proceeded to smash two of my teapots! I tried to order her out, but she declared she wouldn't leave without 'the Hatter's arms,' whatever_ that _means. So I threw her two old loaves of bread I had in the display and told her, 'here, you win, now get lost!' She ran outside, dumped them in a nearby garbage bin – bloody waste of good food! – and was off again. Haven't a clue where she is now, and I don't care either. And unless you're here to pay for the damage she did. . . ."_

Or the Scottish factory worker he'd bumped into coming out of the Elephant's Elbow, who'd told Victor he'd had to stop Alice from running into the steel mill where he worked:

_"She gave me a look and said she would have the Hatter's legs no matter what I did. Damned if I know what she meant – thought maybe she worked in a millinery and the mercury had gotten to her head – but she didn't protest when I turned her round back toward the street. Funny, though – the way she was running, all stops and starts, it was like she was avoiding something trying to crush her. No, she vanished after she rounded the corner. Why should I follow her? I'm not her keeper."_

Add all that to what Witless had told him, and the implications were clear as daylight: Alice was so lost in the depths of her mind that she had completely forgotten she was even in London – and she was close to getting herself killed because of it. _I guess all I can be thankful for is that she hasn't yet tried attacking anything with the ability to fight back._

He opened his eyes and scanned the area once more, trying to figure out where he should go from here. The Billingsgate docks were hardly welcoming to people like himself – but back at the Home there was nothing for him but long, sleepless hours punctuated by the occasional heart-stopping nightmare. He'd much rather be out and about, feeling like he was doing something useful. Anyway, the horrible weather and early hour meant that the area was largely deserted – just a few sailors unloading their catches, and a handful of warehouse men chattering to each other about this and that. None of them had paid Victor more than a moment's attention so far, which he considered a blessing. Every last one of them was as thickly muscled as a professional boxer. _Why oh why must Van Dorts be built like stick insects? I don't even have the pleasure of camouflaging myself like they do._

Abandoning his poor shelter, Victor started wandering between the various buildings again, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of his friend. He and Alice didn't usually come this way when they walked together – in fact, Victor could only recall them visiting twice. Being here now, picking his way through the tangle of crates and nets littering the cobbles, was a good reminder as to why. Not only were the docks full of the kind of people who could snap him like a twig, the entire place stank of sweat, grime, and of course fish. On their first visit, he'd wondered if they might see any of his father's workers – not that he expected any of them to recognize him, but he'd thought it might be nice to see the familiar logo of Van Dort Fish on their crates. Alice had replied that he'd better hope they didn't – all the fish that came from this reach of the Thames were just short of lethal. "It's so polluted that you can't get anything edible out of it – or, at least, you shouldn't," she'd declared, making a face at a pile of smelt. "But then again, perhaps some people have grown to like the taste of sewage." If he hadn't already hated seafood from years of overexposure, Victor would have given it up right there and then.

Still, it was an area he hadn't searched before – and Alice, in her current state, was liable to wander anywhere. _Although I hope she's kept enough of her mind_ not _to come down here,_ Victor thought, just catching himself from tripping on a net. Scowling, he shook his foot free of the knotted ropes, sending out a little spray of slime. _Ugh, how on earth can Father_ enjoy _coming to places like these? Though I doubt even he would like this harbor_ –

"Well well, will you look at this! A swell wandering round our lovely docks! What brings you down to Billingsgate, kind sir?"

Victor froze. _Oh no. . . ._ With extreme reluctance, he turned around. One of the burliest men he'd ever seen was standing behind him, with arms as big as tree trunks and a voice as gruff as a bulldog's. He regarded Victor with a nasty smile. "Not often we see toffs down here," he continued, sauntering forward with that sort of friendly swagger that everyone knows really means someone's going to take a fist to the face soon. "You're far out of your neighborhood, aren't you?"

Victor gulped, then straightened up to his full six feet three inches to see if it would help his nerves. It didn't. "Less than you think," he replied, clamping his hands together behind him to prevent him strangling himself with his tie. "Um – c-could I ask you a question?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he demanded.

"It c-concerns a young lady I'm looking for. . . ."

The man burst out laughing. "Oh. The Mangled Mermaid's that way," he said, jabbing a beefy finger past Victor's shoulder. "On the other side of the icehouse. Don't cost much to rent a bed."

An unwelcome blush flooded Victor's face. "N-no! I'm not – look, have you seen a woman with dark hair about this length–" he slashed his hand along his shoulders "– and bright green eyes? Should be wearing a black-and-white-striped dress with a rather tattered apron?"

The man frowned thoughtfully. "Huh. Yeah, I have, actually. That sounds like the bird me and Horatio just pulled out of the Thames."

Well, at least he didn't have to worry about blushing anymore. That announcement had sent all the color rushing out of his cheeks. "What?! Was she all right?"

"Yeah, and none too grateful either," the man said, scowling. "Would have drowned if it weren't for me, but as soon as I start talking about how she could thank me, all she does is shove me off and walk away! Would have gone after her, taught her a lesson, but Horatio said she's friends with the madam who owns the Mermaid. Something about her being the bird's old nanny. Little slip of a girl like her ain't worth never being able to hire a decent whore again."

"Oh." Yes – Victor remembered Alice telling him about that. She'd been talking about how Nanny had pretty much been her only visitor while incarcerated in the asylum, and Victor hadn't been able to help asking why she wasn't living with her then. The resultant explanation had left him with a sick feeling in his stomach, and both of them with the inability to look each other in the eye until dinnertime. Even now the knowledge made him feel rather off-balance – from children's nanny to brothel madam was just such a disconnect. _But then again, you do what you must to survive on these streets. . . ._ They'd passed close to Nanny's place of business on both their trips this way, but Alice had never introduced him – "It's a rough and tumble place, to put it mildly – a swell would leave missing a couple of teeth at the very least. Besides, I can't guarantee Nanny won't encourage you to have a turn with one of her girls. And if you think the whores on the _street_ are bad about wanting a look inside your wallet. . . ." Victor had been content to leave Nanny to her own dealings until now – but if there was even the slightest chance Alice was with her. . . . "Do you think she might have visited the Mermaid then?"

"She wandered off in that general direction, yeah," the man said with a shrug. "Wouldn't waste my time with her, though. Unless she only takes rich boys like yourself. Some of those gammy haybags are fussy like that."

Victor's better instincts were drowned out by a surge of protectiveness toward his lo- _friend_. "She's _not_ a 'gammy haybag,' nor any form of a 'woman of the night,'" he growled, eyes hard and shoulders stiff. "And that's not why I want to find her."

The man moved forward a step, arching an eyebrow. "So why _do_ you want to find her, swell?" he asked, his tone indicating that he did not appreciate Victor's look.

Victor shrank back. _Ninny – how many times has Alice told you not to make trouble for yourself on these streets?_ "S-she's my friend," he said, swallowing. "That's all." Pulling out his wallet, he extracted about half a pound in shillings. "And I'm very grateful for the information, sir," he added, extending the money. _Please, please don't decide it's a better idea to just rob me. . . ._

Luck was with him – the man's lumpy face lit up at the sight of the banknotes. He snatched them out of Victor's hand and counted them. "Now, see, if more people were like you, the world would be a better place," he said, now all smiles and goodwill. "Like I said, Mermaid's right past the icehouse. Pleasure doing business with you, sir. And good luck finding your bird."

"Thank you." Victor shoved his wallet back in his pocket and hurried off in the direction the fisherman had indicated. Although he certainly didn't like what the man had been implying about Alice – the very thought of the kind of "gratitude" that kennetseeno demander had been expecting made his fists clench – the fellow had given him a lead, and that was worth a few shillings. Well, that and avoiding getting his face caved in by a fist practically as big as his head. _Being a rich man's son in this area is both blessing and curse,_ he thought, passing more barrels and crates that overflowed with half-rotted eels, green-tinted oysters, and scale-flaking trout. _You can make friends with money, but you never know when one of those "friends" will want more than what you're willing to give. . .fortunate I've yet to run into my own Witless! Oh, poor Alice – I wish you'd told me about her. I would have helped you._

The icehouse wasn't more than a dock away from where he'd gotten his directions, easily visible in the gloom thanks to a couple of lamps mounted by the entrance. Three workers were lingering outside, but none of them noticed his approach – two busily chatting away about the weather and the incoming boats by the water's edge, and the third, perched on the open end of a wheelbarrow, dozing amid his workload of barrels. Stepping as lightly as possible, Victor crept up and peered through the wide doorway. The building was filled with a soft white haze, but he could still discern the huge blocks of ice stacked in small columns and stocky pyramids all over the rough wooden floor, with just enough space left between them to allow for footpaths. Slippery, chilly footpaths – even from where he was, he could feel the cold seeping into his clothes. _Goodness – if I go in there, will I end up being used to cool someone's icebox?_

On the other hand, freezing as it might be, the icehouse was at least dry. He turned and looked around the side of the building. Darkness loomed up before him, wet and menacing. Victor shuddered and shook his head. Better a brief trip to the Arctic than plunging back into the night that would not end. With one last glance at the idling workers, he slipped inside.

He almost immediately regretted his decision as the chill attacked him, taking full advantage of his wet clothes. _Maybe it would have been better to risk the other way,_ he thought, hurrying through the maze of ice and avoiding the little drips falling from the ceiling. _I was just so tired of stumbling through that gloom. . . . Still, I made my choice – and with luck, going through instead of around will get me to the Mermaid quicker._ He hugged himself as a particularly hard shiver racked his body. _So long as I don't trip and shatter myself on the floor – oh, what is this?_

Victor slid to a stop as he came to a flight of stairs surrounded on all sides by piles of ice. Past the cubes on the left he could see light, and the gaping square that served as a second entrance, but no way to get to them. "Did they really block off the only way through the bottom?" he grumbled. "How stupid do you have to – hello? Is anyone in here?"

Silence met his call. Frustrated, Victor shoved his shoulder against the nearest block, trying to push it out of his way.

It barely budged. Victor huffed and pulled away – only to find himself frozen against the cube. "Oh, for. . . ." He tugged ineffectually against the ice a couple of times, then threw himself in the opposite direction.

A loud "RRRIPPP!" signaled his freedom as he fell against the floor. Turning himself over, he took a critical eye to the damage. Jacket shoulder torn open, and a bit of sleeve missing – no worse than when he'd torn his rehearsal suit running from Emily. _Though this time, I won't be able to rely on a friendly spider to mend it for me,_ he thought, fingering the burst seam. _Ah well, maybe it makes me look less like a swell – and less like a target._

He got to his feet and tried kicking one of the blocks. Moments later, he was back on the floor, having nearly cracked his head open on a chunk behind him. "Upstairs it is, then," he mumbled as he peeled himself off the frozen planks. "Oh, this had better be worth it. . .how do men _work_ in these places? I suppose it's nice in summer, but in winter. . .what on earth is that?"

Victor stumbled to a stop halfway up the stairs, staring at the block of ice next to him. Beady eyes peered out from behind a screen of white frost, and he could trace the lines of a gaping, fang-filled mouth caught in the translucent depths. "It's a fish!" he gasped. "One of those deep-sea ones, I think. . .how'd it get stuck in there?" He reached out toward the cube, then thought better of it and pulled back. He didn't want his skin to suffer the same fate as his sleeve. "Well, someone's getting a free meal with their next delivery. Oh Alice, I wish I could show you this. I can only imagine the kind of monster you'd make out of it. Some sort of extra-vicious cold-water Snark, perhaps?" Chuckling at the thought, he continued up.

The icehouse's upper floor was little more than a glorified walkway, boasting more stacks and pyramids of ice – and a bright light to his right, much like the ones he'd seen outside. Heading toward it, Victor was relieved to see it served much the same purpose – marking a door out of the building. He darted onto the tiny, rough-hewn landing, drinking in the suddenly-much-warmer air of early morning and barely even noticing the rain. "Ahhh. . .remind me never to do that again!"

Rubbing his hands together to get his blood moving, he looked around. Most of his vision was taken up by the back of some mysterious structure (probably another warehouse), with piles of garbage lying all around its base. But directly in front of him, not far off, was another building – this one looking rather better kept, with glowing windows and a bright yellow sign. Victor hurried down the outside stairs and through the little alley formed by the towering brick walls, nearly tripping in his haste. Could it be –

It was. Up close, the words on the sign were unmistakable: _The Mangled Mermaid_. And hanging right next to it, as if to dispel any possible lingering doubts, was an appropriately desiccated-looking statue of a half-woman, half-fish. Despite the rather horrible imagery shoved in his face, Victor smiled. Perhaps his journey was finally at its end!

Then the flames burst from the far side of the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Brann's Beans" is a subtle shout out to Susie Brann, the voice of Alice.


	7. The Iciest of Receptions

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

7:32 A.M. (Again)

"I'll get what you and your floozies owe me, Miss Ladybird! See if I don't!"

"Maybe ya noticed I'm not pissing me drawers at the prospect!"

Alice smirked as she wandered into the space Jack Splatter had recently vacated. Nan Sharpe, former nanny to the Liddell family and current madam of the Mangled Mermaid, was as feisty as ever it seemed – then again, she'd always been one to never give a pound more than she owed, nor take a pound less than was owed her. Sharp as a tack, with more pride than any "fallen woman" should have and the muscle to back it up, Alice found Nanny's (as she still thought of her) company as pleasurable now as she did when she was a child (except around lesson time). Unfortunately, her visits to the Mermaid were necessarily few and far between, thanks to therapy, chores, and the desire _not_ to have to interact with lusty sailors. But she was here now, and she was looking forward to the opportunity to catch up now that Splatter had finally buggered off. She gave the window Nanny was currently occupying a couple of quick waves, hoping to grab the woman's attention without attracting other, unwanted eyes. She'd already had quite enough of those in her short time back on London's streets. _Ten minutes – at the absolute most – and already I've been propositioned twice and threatened with a beating once,_ she thought, rolling her eyes. _Oh Billingsgate, don't ever change._

Nanny, spotting the motion, stopped glaring at Splatter's back and looked down. Her eyes immediately brightened. "Alice Liddell!" she said, now all warmth and good spirits. "You'll make a nice change. Bring your disheveled self up here!"

"I'd intended to," Alice called back, rubbing the chill out of her arms. Ugh – she'd hoped to have a chance to dry off after escaping the Thames, not get wetter. Bloody rain. "But there's some rather insulting types standing guard over your front door." _Much like the one who pulled me from the river,_ she added to herself, wrinkling her nose as she thought of those leering eyes stuffed into that beefy face. _Though I suppose it's a little ironic that, after I rejected his "offer" to drag me off to the Mermaid, I ended up going there of my own free will. Closest "safe" place I know of, though – I can't walk back to Houndsditch like this. Ugh, I'm soaked right to the bone – this must be how rats feel when they're being drowned by angry housewives._

"Eh, there always is," Nanny said, leaning on the windowsill. "Probably 'cause they can't get it up without making someone's life harder. You just run around the back. Long Tim will let you through, no questions asked. I'll meet you up here. Up to you to get around the lot inside, though." She winked. "Just remember, I'll be putting any bottles you break on your tab."

With that, she withdrew her head and disappeared back inside her room. Alice couldn't help a smile. Good old Nanny. _I'm so glad she was off visiting her sister when the fire happened,_ she thought, continuing up the alley toward the back entrance. _I don't know how I would have managed my first few weeks here without her guidance. Rather depressing that she's been reduced from teaching French and music to upper-middle-class young ladies to selling companionship to laborers and thieves, but she seems happy enough with her new position. When Jack Splatter's not bothering her, that is._ She rolled her eyes again. _"Get what you owe me" – you're owed nothing but a punch in the face, you ugly leech. But I suppose you and she will be back on speaking terms soon enough. Why she puts up with your abuse I will never understand. Either you're an incredible lover or Nanny's hoping she'll crush you underneath one day._

Rounding the corner, she spotted Long Tim, Nanny's loyal bodyguard, leaning against the wall. The normally suspiciously-attentive man was facing away from her, bent nearly double and groaning. Alice lifted an eyebrow, faintly concerned. She and Tim weren't precisely friends, but they did talk on occasion. That was probably enough to warrant an inquiry about his health. _Though I'm sure it's nothing more than a bad bottle of beer._ "Long Tim? Are you all right?"

The guard moaned pitifully, then dragged himself around to face her, gasping with every stumbling step. Alice's eyes went wide. Buried in Tim's guts was a cleaver, soaked with blood and gore. "Tim! What–"

Tim lifted a shaky finger, pointing through the open back door. "Splat," he choked out. "Splat–"

The second syllable never came. With a final groan, Long Tim collapsed by the back step. Alice ran to his side, but it was far too late. Only a miracle could have saved him, and those were in short supply in the East End. She stared as his blood began to seep into the cracks between the cobbles, hardly daring to believe her eyes. This just couldn't be. Nanny's personal nobbler, whom she'd seen smash chairs into splinters and knock men out with a single punch, out and out murdered?! It stretched the bounds of even her imagination. _He'd always said he'd die of a social disease,_ her mind whispered, recalling old conversations. _Poor fellow never dreamed that disease would be named Jack Splatter._

_Splatter!_

Alice bolted into the Mangled Mermaid, her stomach roiling with fear. Splatter had threatened to brain her nanny not three minutes ago, and now – she skidded into the front room. The usual raucous crowd was in attendance – men tossing back watered-down beer and rotgut gin at the bar, women putting themselves on display in the hopes of a few coins, the player piano tinkling out an absurdly merry tune in the corner, and the first of many brawls being fought near the stairwell. But above the sound of men cussing, bottles thumping, and fists punching, Alice could swear she heard the wails of a woman in pain. Dodging around the drunkards in her way, she raced up the stairs, ignoring all of her legs' complaints. _Oh Nanny, please be all right!_

The second level of the Mermaid, where the girls plied their ancient trade, appeared to be deserted – the busiest hours of the night were over, leaving the remaining stragglers to toss back a few drinks downstairs before staggering off to their jobs. But Nanny's door, right across from the landing, was open – and inside, Alice saw a scene that chilled her heart. Her nanny, a woman built like a brick privy, who never took guff from anyone, was lying on the floor, one eye blackened and hands held up in terrified supplication. Jack Splatter loomed over her, fists clenched. "You won't give me what I want, I'll burn this dump of yours down to the ground!" he snarled, kicking her in the ribs.

Sheer terror for the one person she had left from her life before the fire caused Alice to do the very thing she'd always warned Victor against – get involved in one of Splatter's altercations. "Go away!" she demanded as she stalked into the room, although her voice wasn't nearly as strong or steady as she'd have liked. She decided to blame her recent dip into freezing sewage-filled water rather than the fear coursing through her. "She's done no harm!"

Splatter turned around, eyes glinting with cold malice. He regarded Alice for a moment as if she was nothing more than an insect, to be squashed beneath his boot and then forgotten. Then he smirked. "She hurt me feelings," he said causally, as if he and Nanny had had the merest friendly disagreement.

Then, with a single swipe of his arm, he knocked the lamp off Nanny's makeup table.

The light bounced across the room, glass shattering as it smacked against the far wall. Alice threw up her hands to guard against any flying shards. _No – no no NO!_ her mind screamed as the flames began licking across the floor. She had to stop this, had to get over there and smother them before –

She saw the punch coming, but by then it was too late to block or dodge. Splatter's fist connected solidly with her temple, and pain exploded across her skull. Combined with her recent near-death experience, it was too much for her body to take. She hit the floor with a dull thud, the world fading to black as the smell of burning wood filled her nose and old familiar voices echoed in her ears:

_"Out like a snuffed candle. Sleeps the sleep of the just."_

_"Help us, Alice!"_

_"Fire, Alice! Fire!"_

Fire. . . .

The heat from the growing conflagration increased, wrapping her tight in its grip like a python with a luckless mouse. But now there was also motion – a blazingly fast fall that whipped her skirts up against her waist and filled her head with whistles. Even behind her eyelids, she could see the orange glow that streaked with her across the sky. A human meteor, that's what she had become. Tumbling to who knew where while the Mangled Mermaid burned. . . .

Her speed slackened abruptly, an invisible hand halting her in midair before lowering her gently to the ground. Her boots sizzled against the earth as a bitingly cold wind blew her hair against her face. Wobbling slightly, Alice put up a hand to brush the strands back –

Wait. Cold?

Alice blinked open her eyes as the last of the warmth surrounding her trickled away. She was standing near the edge of a vast glacier, with towering walls and vicious spikes of blue-green ice jutting out from the densely-packed snow. Below her, dark ocean waves lapped at humongous icebergs in the shape of never-to-crash breakers. Above her, the night sky twinkled with millions of glittering stars. There was also a crescent moon, brilliantly white, with a face carved into its curve. A cigarette dangled from its rocky lips, and from that trailed long glowing stripes of green smoke, which lit up the sky in jagged lines. And there was still the breeze, nipping at her exposed arms and face as it sent her hair streaming out behind her, her beloved blue dress little help against its chill. It was like she'd suddenly been flung into the highest reaches of the Arctic.

She loved it.

She spread her arms to encompass the ice and snow, relishing in the freezing temperatures so unlike the blazing inferno she'd left. Deep inside, she still feared for Nanny's safety, and even spared a worried thought for the customers down in the Mermaid's bar. But she couldn't help but be glad to be out of all that. To be as far from fire as one could possibly be. "Wonderful," she whispered, watching her breath turn to white fog as it passed her lips.

Then she smirked. "No – _Tundraful_."

* * *

Tundraful

"Oh, poor thing – running the caucus race didn't do much to save you from the cold, did it?"

The lory didn't reply – not that it could, being frozen solid. And even if that barrier could be overcome, the fact that it was missing a good chunk of its innards thanks to the gnawing of passing predators would probably discourage any conversation. Alice grimaced as she continued past the unfortunate bird. Tundraful was proving to be rather more vicious than she'd originally thought. True, all the running around she was doing made the cold bearable (though part of her longed for the long-sleeved dress she'd sported in Hatter's Domain), and the ice was fortunately not so slippery as to nearly send her careening over the cliffs whenever she tried to move. But that didn't change the fact that the only _living_ creatures she'd seen so far – as opposed to those sad individuals who'd been turned into meaty iceboxes – were a handful of Ruin and a hulking Yeti who had seemed determined to send her sailing into the sea with a blast of hot, fish-stinking breath. She'd managed to dispatch the Ruin with her trusty Blade and Grinder, and avoiding the Yeti had simply been a matter of carefully timing her jump past his cave, but it was still rather discouraging. _Not ten minutes in, and I've already had my life threatened twice. Not that I wanted to end up back in the Land of Fire and Brimstone when I left the Mermaid, but really,_ she thought grumpily. _Why can't I ever fall into a place where there's nothing to fight and no hazards to worry about? Oh, yes, my mind hates me and wants me to die._

She entered another of the little round-faced caves that dotted the landscape, wondering if it would contain a memory, or perhaps a stiff-armed starfish she could smash for its health. Instead, she found herself facing an ice slide down into a deeper hole. _All right then. . . ._ She plopped herself down, hissing as the chill penetrated her stockings and skirt like a thousand needles. Damn, it was like the bathing room at Rutledge all over again, with the nurses assuring her that the cold would clear her head as they repeatedly dumped buckets of water over her shivering form. _They must have meant after I'd died from frostbite or pneumonia. It's well-documented that the dead can't think. . .unless you listen to Victor, in which case that 'treatment' would have been of absolutely no benefit at all._

Fortunately, the slipperiness of the slope made for a short ride down to the lower chamber, where, of all things, what looked like a chunk of Looking-Glass Land awaited her. The floor was checked red and white under a clear layer of ice, and directly before her were a pair of Knight statues carved out of the frozen wall. They stood straight and proud over a little stage of sorts, the loyal guards to – "Is that my old hobby horse?"

Alice jogged up the incline, quietly amazed. It was indeed her childhood toy, complete with braided yellow rope mane, a faded coat of white paint, and the little blue wheels at the end of the stick. A snatch of memory filled her ears as her fingers curled around it:

_"Yah! You won't terrorize this village any longer, you wicked giantess! Take THIS!" POW! ". . .Oops."_

_"What on earth was – ALICE! What in BLAZES did you do to the wall?!"_

Alice giggled at the image of her father's horrified face. "Oh, Papa, I didn't mean to put a huge hole in the plaster," she murmured, stroking the toy's muzzle lovingly. She could practically hear a whinny of delight in response. "How was I to know my simple wooden horse was stronger than your fabled brick?" Her lips twisted in a thoughtful smile. "Hmm. . .I wonder if this'd be just as effective against those barriers I use Hatter's bomb on. . . ."

She didn't have long to ponder the question, however. The sound of shattering tile and ice caught her ear, and she turned to see – _Oh,_ hell _._

It didn't look much like the slippery blue-green monsters that swam in the fast-flowing rivers of the Wonderland Woods, nor the burning red ones that frequented the boiling lava streams of the Land of Fire and Brimstone. This creature had a stockier body in deep ocean blue, blind white eyes, a glowing lure dangling from its nose (like the anglerfish she'd seen in Papa's encyclopedia of sea life), and a huge mouth full of teeth the size of railroad spikes. But it was a fish, and it had legs, and it looked ready to eat her, which meant it could only be one thing. "Snark," Alice growled, blood running hot and fast.

The Ice Snark hissed at her, frost streaming from its jaws. Alice hefted her new weapon, the familiar weight straining her arms. "I nearly knocked my nanny senseless with this," she snarled. "I can take you!"

The Snark wasn't impressed, judging by the way it immediately tried to leap on her. Alice dodged out of the way and swung the muzzle of the Horse straight into its face. The fish squealed in pain, then retaliated by spraying her with a lungful of cold mist. Alice gasped as it froze around her in a icy shell. "Oh, that's not fair!" she yelled. "I don't even have the Ice Wand this go-round to return the favor!"

Fortunately, pulling her little butterfly trick seemed sufficient to free her from her prison ( _Emily, have I thanked you for being a part of Victor's life lately?_ ). She dodged another snap from the Snark's jaws, then slammed the Horse into the top of its skull. The Snark toppled over onto its side as blood sprayed from its wounds. Raising the toy as high above her head as she possibly could, Alice brought it down with a mighty smash, rocking the cave and reducing her foe into nothing more than the main ingredient in fish and chips. _But why have one enemy when you can have four?_ she thought bitterly, watching as more Ice Snarks broke through the floor to avenge their fallen brother-in-arms. "I'm not afraid of you!" she yelled, swinging the Horse in front of her like a particularly odd mace. "I'll smash you all into patties and drag your frozen corpses to Van Dort Fish! I promised Victor I'd let his father see if you look good in cans!"

To her surprise and delight, the mention of the cannery seemed to put the monsters on edge – they backed away from her advance, hissing and squealing. Alice took full advantage of their fear to launch a devastating attack, beating them down with the Hobby Horse before fileting them with the Vorpal Blade. A couple tried to fight back, nipping and chomping at her elbows and knees between strikes, but a thorough peppering left them dazed and ripe for having their heads cracked open. After just three minutes, there was nothing left of the Snarks beyond a few blood splatters and some scattered chunks of fins and scales. Alice grinned as she stroked her Horse's muzzle, now tinted a rich crimson. "Oh, we're going to have all _sorts_ of fun together," she whispered as three icicles, shaken loose from their moorings by the fearsome battle, toppled from the ceiling, providing her with a convenient path back to the open air. "I can just _feel_ it."

* * *

"Now, where are those – oh! Well then – seems this detour of mine is more profitable than I'd thought."

Alice grinned up at the glittering butterfly resting on the ledge just above her head. She hadn't expected another moment with Victor when she'd come this way along the teetering, hopscotch path of icebergs and floating bits of crayon. All she'd been after was the treasure trove of golden teeth she'd spotted floating off this particular island's far shore. Hollow Yves valued those at five times the rate of the usual pearly whites, so even a group of three or so was worth going after. _Who would have thought part of my dress would be alive?_ she thought, glancing as far as she could in the direction of the little skull that held her apron bow in place. _Much less have the ability to magically upgrade my weaponry? Still, he's useful and no mistake._ She summoned her Hobby Horse and admired its new look. A few handfuls of Wonderland's unusual currency had done quite the number on her old toy. Now her friendly little pony was a raging charger, its face made of sturdy red metal and its mane alternating thick red and white blunted spikes. Its pole was striped like a barber's, and weighted at the end with a studded white ball. The change from wood to steel meant it was rather heavier now too – but that just meant it packed more of a wallop. _The Pepper Grinder changed its face too when I paid him last, and I swear the Vorpal Blade feels lighter in my hand. . .I wonder what all these deadly implements of mine will look like once I've finally satisfied Yves's passion for dentistry?_ She ran a finger along the curves of the Horse. _Hopefully I'll get a chance to find out before this trip is over._

Hissing alerted her to the presence of a Snark, apparently standing guard over the memory. Alice's smile took on a vicious edge as she promptly began beating the wretched fish to death. Oh, it felt so good to be able to just hit it over and over again until it stopped moving! Its cousins in the water of the Wonderland Woods had been particular pains in her arse the last time. "At least I get to fight these on _my_ preferred battleground, not theirs," she muttered, remembering all the times she'd been dragged into a river and had to fumble for her blade as sharp teeth nipped at her skin. "Of course, if we did take this fight to the sea, it's more likely we'd both end up as ice cubes rather than combatants."

Finally, the fish deigned to die. Alice gave it another wallop just for good measure, then put away the Horse and jumped onto the ledge. Safety secured, she gave the memory a tap.

_"All right, lads, dump it out!"_

_The sailors heaved the net over the side, and with a series of wet little splats, the fish flopped onto the docks. Alice wrinkled her nose as she and Victor watched the pile grow before them, wriggling bodies sliding down the sides to slap their tails weakly against the water-stained wood. "And to think that these ugly little creatures will be headed for someone's dinner table," she commented as the dockmen started scooping up the catch and loading it into a waiting cart. "I wonder how long it'll take them to get those to the markets and canneries?"_

_"If they're good at their job, not long at all," Victor told her. Indeed, the cart was already full, squeaking away to the nearest icehouse while another rolled up to take its place. A second net disgorged its contents onto the dock in response, splattering slime and loose scales everywhere. Alice scowled as a glob landed on her apron._ _**"Even packed in ice, fish goes bad quickly – at least, that's what Father tells me,"** _ _Victor continued, noticing the mess and offering his handkerchief._ _**"That's why he wanted to get into the canning business – the longer fish keeps, the more chance you have of actually making a profit. He's fond of reminding me that it'll all be mine one day."** _ _He frowned at the slowly-disintegrating mountain of smelt, trout, and bass, twiddling his fingers as she wiped off her dress._ _**"I'm n-not eager for that day to come, to be honest."** _

And with that, the docks faded, as if pushed out of existence by Victor's reluctance to take up the mantle of cannery king. In their place sat a round wall of ice, marked with the head of a horse. Alice shattered it with the Hobby Horse as it implicitly bid and headed outside, musing on the memory. _That was our first visit to Billingsgate, wasn't it? Yes – the one where we_ didn't _talk much about Nanny and her chosen profession. It was all about Van Dort Fish that time – the whys and wherefores of cannery operations and high expectations._ She sighed. _Poor Victor – for all your talk about maybe finding some of your father's workers and getting a little taste of home, I think you were secretly pleased not to see that logo on any of the crates. It meant not thinking more than you had to about what your father insisted you do with your life._

It was funny how much people she'd barely shared two words with could irritate her. The Van Dort's dissatisfaction with their son was like a mosquito bite that wouldn't stop itching. She reserved her especial hatred for Nell – that awful, cold-hearted lickspittle – but William was not immune to her ill feelings either. Perhaps he didn't force Victor to attend crowded, noisy balls, or complain overmuch about his son's inability to impress the elite, but – well, the man was obviously blinder than the proverbial bat if he thought Victor was going to be a good businessman. Her friend was artistic, shy, and prone to letting others make decisions for him – hardly qualities valued by men of industry. And while he had more of a temper than he let on, he lacked that necessary ruthlessness needed to deal with incompetent workers and dangerous competitors alike. Yes, he'd picked up some all-too-necessary cynicism living in Whitechapel, but Alice could see that, at heart, Victor was still a sweet boy who just wanted to please people. _Not_ the sort of person you wanted going up against those who would like to see your business fall under their control, or just fail entirely. Maybe he'd make a decent accountant – Victor had mentioned he knew quite a bit about balancing ledgers thanks to lots of practice in the family fish shop – but an owner? No.

 _And that's not even getting into the fact that Victor utterly despises fish in all its forms,_ Alice added to herself with a snort. She'd found that out in a rather hilarious way the first time Bumby had served fish for dinner. Victor had looked at his plate, poked at it with his fork, then, with extreme politeness, asked if he could be excused. What had followed was a full minute of staring from everyone else at the table, followed by at least three variations on "Are you sure?" from Bumby and an additional one from herself. Nobody had been able to believe that Victor (who, despite his skinny frame, had a _very_ healthy appetite) was actually refusing food. The children had eventually taken advantage of the situation to devour his portion along with their own, but the shock had lasted throughout the rest of the meal. Alice had tracked him down afterward and asked what on earth he'd been thinking (slightly hurt because she'd been the one who'd cooked the damn thing). "I'm sorry, Alice – I don't mean to insult your culinary skills," he'd apologized. "But – the fact is, growing up, my family ate some form of seafood – usually the freshest examples of whatever had come to the cannery – every _day_. Supper was a constant parade of fish – and often lunch and tea involved the leftovers of the previous day. Father considered it good advertisement for the business. I don't know _why_ – perhaps he thought people were looking through the windows watching us eat." He'd made a face then, chewing on his lower lip. "If the idea was to get me used to running a cannery, I'm afraid it's backfired on him – I've grown to _hate_ the taste of fish. I'll eat it if I have no other choice, and I still enjoy things like lobster and shrimp, but – honestly, between the meal tonight and going hungry, I'd rather go hungry." Alice had been able to accept that as a legitimate excuse – and afterwards, whenever Bumby had sent her out to purchase fish for a meal, she'd warned Victor in advance so he could buy his own lunch or dinner. No sense in making her friend suffer if he had the money to avoid it.

Speaking of money. . .after taking a moment to shrink and reveal the path hovering above the water's surface, Alice carefully navigated her way over to the trio of glittering golden teeth. She gathered them up with a scoop of her hand, dropping them into whatever other-dimensional pocket also kept her weapons safe. _Excellent – that should just about pay for whatever upgrade is due next on the grinder,_ she thought, patting her apron. _Would have appreciated you opening your yap when I first arrived in the Village of the Doomed, Yves – then again, I had more variety in my weapons on that journey, so your services weren't as badly needed. Still, the very idea of an upgraded Jackbomb intrigues me. . . ._

Thoughts straying from the deadly possibilities contained in less-than-innocent toys, Alice found her gaze going back up to the sky. The moon was still there, still smoking away, creating more bright sinuous blue-green ribbons to light the night sky. Between them, the distant stars glinted like diamonds wrapped in dark velvet. At the very edge of the horizon rested a streak of lighter blue, heralding a dawn that might never actually come. _If only I had paint, canvas, and some time to spare,_ Alice thought wistfully. _This would make the most beautiful picture. . .of course, I bet Victor could capture it better than I ever could. He's quite the artist._ She smiled. _I bet he'd love it here. Maybe not the cold, and the poor frozen animals, but the stars and the moon? He'd be awestruck, I'm sure of it. If only I could bring him here. . . ._

_Is that the second or third time I've wished that?_

Alice frowned to herself. She'd been thinking of Victor a lot lately on her travels, hadn't she? Yes, he had his fair share of the memories tucked away around the varying landscapes, but so did Radcliffe and Nanny and even Bumby, and she generally didn't spare them a second thought after the flashback was over. Victor just stuck in her head, like gum on a shoe. And yes, to be fair, he was her best friend, but. . .it amazed her just _how much_ she wanted him to be here. To show him her Wonderland – or, rather, Wonderland as it _should_ be. She didn't want him to see the wrecked parts, the bits reflecting the way her mind was falling to pieces around her. But the quiet places, like the unspoiled islands of the Vale or the quiet icebergs of Tundraful. . .that would be a treat. She reached out a hand and pretended his fingers were wrapped around hers as they gazed up at the magnificent panorama spread out before them. It would be so nice to be able to while away a few hours here, wrapped in a snuggly blanket, talking and looking. . . .

 _Except that's not like me at all,_ she thought, dropping her arm back to her side. Wonderland was supposed to be her private retreat, her home away from home. The place she went when she wanted to escape the real world and everyone in it. The only other person she had ever really wanted to bring here was Lizzie. And she'd never thought of Victor like a brother, no matter how close they'd gotten. He was a – a friend. A kind, understanding, gentle. . . .

She shook her head rapidly. _Wasting time again,_ she scolded herself. _That Infernal Train is still out there, still spreading Ruin, and you're stuck on Northern Lights and pale young men who belong solely to reality. Your job isn't to muck about with what-ifs and could-have-beens – it's to learn more about the train, track it down, and stop it dumping more of that vile gunk across your mind! Unless you_ want _to keep fighting legions of sludge monsters. . . ._

The shudder that went down her spine was proof that she didn't. Nodding firmly to herself, she looked out across the water. The ship in a bottle she'd spotted while reducing the Snark population of the tundra to nil was almost within reach now, and she could see a familiar figure waving to her from its upper deck. The head of a young cow, bedecked with a rather ridiculous admiral's hat, was perched upon a turtle's shell and flippers, and while Alice was too far away to tell for sure, she was almost certain there were tears leaking from its beady eyes. "Rather hard to be lost at sea if you can't go anywhere," she mumbled, examining his glass prison. "But still, you're the only one with a boat to take me across this frigid ocean, so. . . ." She turned and ran back to the iceberg, preparing to circle around again and see if there weren't any more direct paths to her goal than the impossible jump waiting for her here.

Hopefully the Mock Turtle was doing more this time than just wailing.

* * *

"Hmm. A fine vessel, if I do say so. If you ignore the fact that I know next to nothing about sailing."

Alice stood just outside the oversized bottle, hands on her hips, regarding the ship inside with a critical eye. While her experience with seafaring had been limited to pleasure cruises in rowboats on the Isis, she felt that even a landlubber like her could appreciate this ship. It was a bit small, granted, and its long stint trapped in the chill had covered it with frost and icicles. But it looked sturdy enough, with wide sails and plenty of canon. And besides, any boat that had her friend Gryphon's head and claws carved into its prow probably had luck on its side.

 _On the other hand, being captained by the Mock Turtle might cancel that out,_ she thought, her gaze shifting upward to the ship's apparent owner. Mock returned her look with anxious impatience, drumming his flippers on the port side rail. _He's a decent enough sort, I suppose, but I wouldn't put him in charge of anything that floats, not even a leaf. I've seen what happens when you do._ She shuddered as it all came back to her – navigating fearsome rapids, plunging over steep drops, just barely avoiding being exploded or shot at or bitten or falling to her doom with every twisty turn. . . . It was almost enough to convince her that she should greet him with a whack of the Hobby Horse against his precious shell. _The whole reason I put you in that train conductor's position is because you weren't any good at being a turtle, mock or otherwise. So why did you abandon your post?_ "Turtle?" she called.

He shook his head and pointed at the glass, mouthing soundless words. Ah – he couldn't hear her through it. Inconvenient – but she had to seek passage on his boat anyway to continue across the ocean, so. . . . Fortunately, she didn't need to bother with figuring out how to uncork his glass prison – the bottle already sported a huge crack stretching across the side, with a hole just big enough to climb through right above her head. Hauling herself through broken glass was hardly her favorite activity, but she didn't have much of a choice. She jumped and caught the bottom edge of the gap, then pulled herself up and through –

And bit back a scream as _something_ leapt from the water and slammed its snout into the hole after her, nearly taking her rump off. Whipping around, she was confronted with what looked like an enormous shark constructed of chunks of ruined ships, floating in midair as it gnawed furiously at the glass. _So_ that's _what kept skirting the water around me,_ she thought, recognizing the dark pirate flag that served as the creature's dorsal fin from glimpses caught as she traveled across the glacier. _But why try to attack me_ now _? You never even looked in my direction before! And who told you it was acceptable for a sea creature to fly? Urgh, bloody nonsense. . . ._

"You'd better come aboard, Alice," Mock said gloomily, attracting her attention. "We're doomed, of course."

"What? There's no hope then?" Alice asked, although even as she said it she wondered why she was bothering. Of course the answer would be no. The Mock Turtle never had any hope for anything. If he'd been the one to cry the Pool of Tears, it would have been an ocean – and still growing today.

"Oh, there's an infinite amount of hope," Mock returned to her mild surprise, shaking his head as the shark – a Shipwreck Shark, Alice decided – rammed into the bottle again, a low growl rising from whatever passed for its throat as it again failed to reach its prey. A second one appeared close to its cousin, scraping its teeth along the side and trying to wedge them into the crack. "But none for us. Now get up here!"

With a steadily growing number of Sharks throwing themselves from the water and crashing into the glass, Alice didn't need a second invitation. She raced to the boat and scrambled up the ladder Mock dropped over the side. "The friend you patterned this vessel on would be most welcome in the flesh right now," she commented as she clambered onto the deck.

Mock sniffled. "Gryphon's dead. I made this ship in his memory."

Alice froze, eyes wide. "Dead?" No, that couldn't be right! She'd brought him back last time, she knew she had! She'd seen him flying over the restored Caterpillar's Plot, looking – looking. . . .

She couldn't remember. The image was there, but – it was all faded and fuzzy, like she was peering at it through a layer of gauze. She couldn't recall the color of his eyes, nor the feel of his feathers, nor the sound of his voice. Their first meeting was nothing but a vague picture of a curled, sleeping figure that could just as easily be Dinah, or perhaps Fury, the terrier that farmer who'd lived a few streets over had owned. The Lobster Quadrille was clear – she'd sung it to herself regularly to ensure its being so – but while she knew Gryphon had danced to it, she was damned if she could recall the steps. Worst of all, his fight against the Jabberwock – his bravest, proudest moment – was little more than an indistinct blur in her mind. Only the memory of him taking his last, gasping breath had any clarity to it. _But why? He was one of my dearest friends, why can't I –_

" _Gryphons aren't real, Alice. They're good for nothing more than heraldry. Do you want to always be the damsel in distress?"_

Alice bit her lip. _That_ she remembered – one of her least-annoying sessions, where she'd thought they'd actually made a little progress. Dr. Bumby had put the question to her after a trip through the Land of Fire and Brimstone, and of course she'd said no – she was perfectly capable of saving herself, thank you very much. She didn't need to lean on anyone. But just because she didn't _need_ to didn't mean she didn't _want_ to sometimes –

Another crash and a disturbing cracking sound distracted her from that line of thought. She whipped her head left and right to see a whole school of Shipwreck Sharks now slamming their noses against the bottle, covering its surface with fine-lined webs as they attempted to break through. One had even successfully wedged itself into the hole she'd climbed through and was now stretching its mighty jaws toward the side of the boat, snapping like it wanted to devour the very air. "Confounded beasts!" Mock cried, turning in terrified circles. "They want my ship!"

"I think _you're_ more to their taste," Alice said, eying the one in the hole with an anxious swallow. _The question is, am I as well?_

"What? Never!" Mock declared, pressing his flippers against his cheek. "We're almost relatives!"

Despite her fear, Alice smirked. She had to call him out on _that_ one. "You're related to _soup_ , 'Admiral.'"

Mock glared at her. "You don't need to rub it in."

"My apologies, but it does lend credence to the idea that these creatures want a taste of you rather than your vessel."

"Not at all! These Sharks devour ships faster than a Snark can eat a baker! It's how they add onto themselves, you see. And I don't want any of them getting Gryphon's head!" he added, shaking a flipper at a Shark who seemed quite intent on getting its teeth into the prow.

"Oh!" Well, she supposed that made more sense for creatures so clearly made out of wood. "Still, do you think they'll particularly care if they chew us up along with the deck and masts?"

"No, they wouldn't," Mock admitted miserably as another Shark smashed into the bottle, creating a distinct shattered dent near the back. "It's curtains for us, and no mistake."

Then, out of nowhere, he brightened. "Wait – I've an idea! We'll leave this mayhem and go to Carpenter's show!" he said, pointing at the sea. "It's better than a gaff. Carpenter promises that which we don't take seriously can't harm us. And if the HMS Gryphon can't get us down to the Deluded Depths, I don't know what ship can!"

The webs continued to spread across the sides of the bottle with every crash, covering the glass with a series of small cricks and creaks. Alice followed their path to a rapidly-widening crack positioned just above their heads. _Uh-oh. . . ._ "You're sure going _below_ the water is the best thing to do in this case?" she asked.

"Oh yes. The Sharks don't go near Carpenter's. He used too many of them to help build the Dreary Lane Theater."

 _Crick. . .crack. . .crunch. . . ._ "Fine then. Best dive now, Admiral," she encouraged her friend. "Or the Sharks will have us for lunch."

As if to underscore her words, the bottle chose exactly that moment to give up the ghost and split in two. The Sharks let out roars of triumph as the shattered halves sunk beneath the midnight blue waves and leapt immediately for the feast before them. Alice yanked out her Blade, figuring it was better than nothing if she need to fight –

 _Whoosh!_ The sails spread and puffed proudly as they caught the ever-present breeze, sending the HMS Gryphon speeding across the sea. Most of the Sharks fell back to the water gnashing their teeth, and the one that landed hit the stern with its side instead of its mouth, snapping a few ribs before dropping away again. Alice gave them her best rude hand gesture as the ship raced away from them. "Not today, you woodworm-eaten beasts!" she cried as the school gave chase, nipping ineffectually at their heels. "Hah! Turtle, how long before we reach Carpenter's domain?"

"Not long at all! We're almost to the drop-off point!" Mock called, pointing ahead with a flipper. Alice ran to the bow to get a better look –

And felt her stomach drop straight into her feet. Directly in front of them was the biggest, steepest bloody waterfall she'd ever seen, the sea churning and growling like a shark itself. She whipped her head around as the ship rocked from side to side. "You have got to be kidding me! There is no way–" She yelped as they ricocheted off a stone. "Can't you steer this thing?!"

"Steering was an advanced class at our school! I never got a chance to learn!" the Mock Turtle yelled as they flew toward the edge, still pursued by the Sharks. "Would you rather be chewed to bits? Just take a breath and hold on!"

Alice clamped her hands onto the starboard railing, bile rising in her throat as the freezing spray lashed her face. _Perfect,_ she thought angrily. _I should have guessed. Just how many times is this bastard going to try to drown meee–_ "EEEEEEAAAAHHHH!"


	8. A Show To Die For

Deluded Depths

_I. Am never. Getting on. A boat. Again._

Alice winced and moaned as consciousness reasserted its claim on her psyche. Every last one of her muscles felt as if they'd been the rope in a particularly vicious game of tug-of-war, stretched and strained to their absolute limit. Her skull throbbed too, a steady beat-beat-beat perfectly matching the drum of her heart. It seemed that everything that could hurt in her body, did. _Why did I ever trust that wretched mockery of a sea creature to get us to the Depths safely?_ she wondered as she waited for the worst of the pain to bugger off. _First I have to endure a heart-stopping plunge into frigid waters, then I'm sent scrambling all over the deck firing cannon and dropping charges to ensure we're not torn to pieces by roaming schools of those bloody Shipwreck Sharks, all while constantly ducking or shouting so that our 'brave captain' doesn't steer us straight into some random rock formation blocking our path – and then, at long last, just when it looks like we're in the clear, the king of all those sharp-toothed and broken-hulled horrors leaps out of nowhere and smashes us into the seabed, rendering all my hard work for naught! What_ is _it with me and crash landings as of late? It makes me want to cry, it really does. . . ._

_Except that I'm quite certain the sobbing I currently hear isn't coming from me._

With a soft grunt, Alice managed to open her eyes and lift her head slightly. Cloudy water swirled all around, rendering her surroundings rather murky, but it wasn't difficult to trace the tears to their source. The Mock Turtle sat before a nearby column of rock to her left, surrounded by the shattered remains of the HMS Gryphon and weeping fresh gallons of salt into the sea. _Yes, of course_ you're _fine,_ Alice thought, throwing the turtle a glare as she struggled to push herself upright. _You can take any punishment the world throws at you with little more than a wail._ _Aren't I supposed to get a shell of my own when I go underwater? What happened to me being an honorary reptile?_ "Oooow!" she groaned as she finally regained her feet. "My body aches all over! We submerged too quickly – and you're to take a class on steering the first chance you get, 'Admiral!'"

The Mock Turtle didn't even deign to give her a glance. "Won't ever get one now," he sniffled, wiping his face with a flipper as he surveyed the crushed and splintered timbers of his once-proud boat. "My ship's a wreck – and I am too!"

Alice was tempted to say something about how he was never anything _but_ a wreck, but refrained in favor of making sure she had no broken bones. Wonderland had tried to make up for nearly killing her again with another new dress, she noticed – this one of green and pink fish scales, with dotted stripes running vertically down the sleeves and skirt. They glowed faintly in the dim light, providing a handy lamp of sorts. The neckline was shockingly daring, showing off what little cleavage she had between two seashell-like cups ( _I'm no mermaid, Wonderland_ , she mentally grumbled, resisting the urge to cover herself), and she'd also been divested of stockings and boots. _B_ _ut then again,_ she thought, wiggling her toes in the soft white sand, _I probably don't need them in this particular location._ She still had her apron though – shrunken now, and shaped like a scallop, but present. Her necklace was also still round her neck, except fastened with a tie of seaweed instead of silver links. Alice touched the familiar omega, then twisted her head to check on Yves. She found him in the shape of an angler's skull, complete with bobbing lure. "Well then," she murmured, playing with the long feeler, "I guess I'm ready for a day at Brighton. All I have to do now is catch the Train."

She brushed a few stubborn bits of dirt from the symbols of Neptune and Luna embroidered on her gown (Wonderland _was_ remarkably good at picking appropriate symbols for these new shifts), then looked up. Miles of silty midnight-blue sea stretched above her head, obscuring all trace of the sky she'd so adored in Tundraful. For a moment, she wondered how she was breathing so far below the water's surface – then quickly shoved the thought out of her mind, lest she find herself suddenly dependent on mysterious streams of bubbles and pockets of captured air to live. She'd had enough of nearly drowning doggy-paddling her way through the Wonderland Woods and the Tower of Water last time. If she had to go through this nonsense again, she'd breathe normally and keep her feet on good old _terra firma_.

The cold currents that had so tormented her before now proved a wondrous salve for her aching joints, and after a mere minute or two of letting herself be rocked by their steady swell, Alice felt ready to walk again. She did a slow circuit of crash site, both to test her legs and better examine her surroundings. They'd landed on one of the scattered chunks of stone and coral uplifted from the sea bed that they'd madly dodged while maneuvering around Shipwreck Sharks and crabs wielding cannon. This one was rather more interesting than its cousins, covered with jagged columns and arches weathered into shape by the relentless motion of the water around them. Chunks of mast, deck, and hull lay scattered all around, the battered wood torn down almost to splinters by the unforgiving rock. Alice winced as she caught sight of what remained of the prow lying helplessly on the sand behind the Mock Turtle. There was something utterly defeated about the wooden face with its upturned eye and open beak – a sense that something truly wondrous might in fact be lost forever. _A waste of a good ship,_ she thought with a sigh. _And a most unfitting end for something that commemorated one of my dearest friends._ (How _could_ he be dead? He'd once ripped an eye right out of the Jabberwock's skull – hadn't he? Ugh, why were all her memories of him so blurry and faded. . . . Could a mere "yes" to one of Bumby's questions really have felled such a mighty creature?) She glanced over at her still-sniffling comrade. _For once, Mock Turtle, you have good reason to weep_.

On the other hand, them sitting around and feeling sorry for themselves didn't actually help their situation. She desperately needed answers, and he was the only creature around who could give them. "I am sorry, but – admirals go down with their ships," she informed him as she drew near, then furrowed her brow. "Or is it captains. . . ." She shrugged. "In any case, I never knew you for a sailor. If memory serves, you were stationmaster of the Looking-Glass Line."

Mock sniffled, hmming as he tried to get his tears under control enough to speak. "Sacked from the railroad, without the option," he finally got out. "'Redundant,' the nitwits said." His ears wiggled with anger as he scrubbed at his face. "Never a holiday! Loyal as a bulldog! 'Going in a different direction' my Aunt Fanny – if I had one. Going off the rails more like! Bloody disaster." He ran a flipper along a dented cannon sitting by his side, as if trying to comfort it. "Now I'm shipless – no place in the world at all. The old railroad's dead, and this new thing's a monstrosity." He glowered out into the dark ocean, looking as furious as something sporting a calf's head could get. "It never runs on time. Engineer's asleep at the switch. And the fuel–"

The anger abruptly left his face, replaced by fear. "No! What I don't know about it can't hurt me!" he cried, waving his flippers wildly like he was trying to banish that gloomy Gnat and his terrible puns. "Say no more! Mum's the word! Nod's as good as a wink!"

Alice blinked a few times, startled. What the – what on earth had he been about to say? "Mock?"

Mock shook his head and zipped his flipper across his mouth. Alice huffed and folded her arms across her chest. Well, he'd been kind enough to fill in a few more pieces of the puzzle at least. Hatter's words about March and Dormy came back to her now: _"And then they suddenly came storming in one day talking about 'new regime' this and 'forget the past' that–"_ Obviously they'd been the ones to fire Mock after tearing their former friend to pieces. But why? Surely even the Infernal Train needed someone to help run it, and the only other candidate she could think of was lying crushed beneath steel girders. "Please, Mock, I don't understand. Can't you–"

"Change the subject," Mock interrupted, shaking his head firmly. "We avoid speaking about the thing whose name should not be spoken."

That was the most logical thing Alice had ever heard him say, but it irritated her nonetheless. Yet again she was surrounded by creatures who wanted to talk about everything _but_ saving Wonderland. Didn't anyone besides her actually _care_ about the state of the world? For God's sake, _he'd_ been the one last time to remind her that she was just a visitor – the rest of them had to live here! "Hearing something useful about this new train would make for a change," she grumbled, letting the sarcasm drip off her words.

Mock turned away from her, fresh tears streaming down his muzzle. "You don't respect the suffering of others," he muttered, hat slipping forward to cast his eyes in shadow. "Go ask your questions and smart remarks to Caterpillar! Leave me to my misery."

Something about the way he looked just then – so downtrodden, so exhausted – made Alice suddenly picture Victor on one of his bad days, slumped in a chair with his eyes on the floor. Guilt settled like a heavy stone in her stomach. This wasn't right. For all his faults – and there were many – Mock was her friend. Victor wouldn't approve of her treating him so heartlessly. And being nasty hadn't gotten her anywhere with Hatter either. "I'm sorry, Admiral, really," she apologized, digging a hole in the sand with her toes. "About your getting sacked, and your ship. I wouldn't have let them fire you if I'd known. But I _must_ learn more about what's happening, dangerous as it may be." She put on her best puppy-dog look, pushing her lower lip out in a pout. "Please – tell me what you know about the train?"

Mock patted his flippers together, reminding her even more of Victor and his fidgety fingers. Damn it, if he kept doing that, she'd want to give him a hug. "I'll just say we've escaped a contaminating corruption," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. "Count yourself lucky to be down here."

That was – ominous. But it also wasn't anything she didn't already know. She sighed. "But I don't want to escape – I want to stop it!" she replied, trying to reason with him. "I must stop it to save myself – and Wonderland too. And you can help me, Mock. Just tell me what you know!"

For a moment, his resolve seemed to waver – then he shook his head again. Alice sighed. She really shouldn't have expected anything else. The Mock Turtle had always been a cowardly creature, refusing to meet any danger head-on if he could somehow work around it – or send someone else to deal with it in his stead. _Chalk it up to the fact his entire purpose is to end his life in a tureen, I suppose._ "Turtle, I've already seen the wretched thing in action. You won't get in trouble for letting me in on your secrets."

"Nonsense!" he declared, his eyes darting all around as if afraid the anemones were eavesdropping on them. "Speak more nonsense. Diversions rule the day! The show must go on, and so on. . . ." He frowned thoughtfully, as if struck by something, and gestured at her with a flipper. "Speaking of shows–"

"We weren't," Alice said flatly, hoping to dissuade him from another tangent.

No luck. "Yes, well, never mind – here's a ticket for the show Carpenter's mounting," he continued, pulling an oversized rectangle of white cardboard out from somewhere in his shell. He dropped it in front of her, letting it float in the currents. "Use it."

Alice took the ticket and examined it. There wasn't much to it – just "Totentanz" written in fancy silver lettering across the front, with the "o" replaced by the open jaws of a vicious-looking fish, all arching slightly over an omega like the one at her collarbone. Flipping the rectangle over revealed a pattern of black fish scales, with "Dreary Lane Theater" written in blood red ink. Hmmm. Mock _had_ suggested the Carpenter's realm as the safest place to be at the moment, but. . . . "Is there really time for theater while that Infernal Train–" Mock winced "– sorry – runs wild over Wonderland?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Carpenter says there is. He says that while the Train runs free, the best thing we can do is amuse ourselves and not worry about the past. He's not likely to say a word about our current conundrums with how busy he is." Mock glanced around again, then leaned in closer, cupping his mouth. "However, if you run an errand for him – or two – or three. . . ."

Ahhh, _this_ was language Alice understood. "Like when I retrieved your shell from the Duchess?" she smirked, making the Turtle blush. "Well then, I'll see what he knows. Thank you, Mock." She looked again at the HMS's Gryphon's detached head, resisting the urge to go over and pet it. "And once I've managed to stop this 'contaminating corruption,' I'll see what I can do to help you fix your ship."

Mock blinked, his tears ceasing from sheer surprise. "Really? Your blood _has_ warmed since we last met," he commented.

"Thank the fact that you remind me quite a bit of another, very dear friend," Alice said with a smile, patting his flipper. "You stay here – and stay safe, all right?"

"I can do that," Mock promised, cracking a rare smile. "Good luck with the show."

Images of oversized steel fists slamming down from the ceiling and boiling pots of lava-hot tea threatening to tip over onto her danced before her eyes. "Thank you," Alice said with a grimace. "I'll most likely need it."

* * *

"Now how are you alight underwater?"

The door didn't reply – just continued to crackle away. Alice folded her arms and glared at it. "I suppose I should have expected that you'd make a habit of popping up," she grumbled. "If there's more than one little house, or pair of glasses, or drooping feather, why not more than one scorched front door? And we all know one of Wonderland's favorite activities is tormenting me with memories of the fire."

Still no reply – not that she really expected the knob to sprout a face and start chatting to her. (Although it wouldn't be out of place either. . . .) She sighed and looked around. Nothing else out here but sand and water – and a very high cliff edge. So unless she intended to go back and spend the rest of her life leaping among the jellyfish. . . . "I hope you have something rather more interesting to show me this time," she said, opening the door and stepping inside.

_Unfortunately, it seemed it didn't. Once again, she was back in the cluttered, sour-smelling library. She scowled in frustration. "Oh for – we've been over this! Yes, the library was likely to kill us all at one point or another, I bloody get–"_

_"Mow."_

_Alice froze for a split second – then her head jerked down. "Dinah!"_

_It was indeed her old cat, prowling the library for vermin. On automatic, Alice tried to crouch down and stroke her – but her hand passed right through Dinah's dark fur, and the cat continued on oblivious. "Right – memory," she murmured, a little embarrassed. She stood up again, noting that a few other things had changed from her first visit. The room was a little darker this time, Father's things arranged a bit neater, the toys cleaned up, and the fireplace out. Was it night now? Her stomach twisted. Was it_ the _night, in fact? It would only make sense, given how she'd got here –_

_"Dinah! Here, Dinah!"_

_The door opened behind her, and Alice turned to see – herself, eight and a half years old, padding across the carpet in her nightgown. "Dinah!" she repeated, unaware of her older self's gaping. How strange to be able to see oneself from the outside like this! But then again, she had a lot of experience at pretending to be two people. . . ._

_Dinah mowed, trotting over and winding around the younger Alice's legs. "Come on, puss," little Alice said, hoisting the cat into her arms. "I want to stay and play too, but it's time for bed, and your Snowdrop and Kitty are already upstairs. You don't want them to be cold, do you?"_

_Dinah lightly tapped little Alice's nose with a paw. Little Alice giggled. "Now now, none of that," she mock-scolded. "If you're very good, I'll take you to Wonderland and we'll see if perhaps the Red Queen has some fish for you. As she's your own kitten, she really ought to."_

_Dinah murred and settled herself against little Alice's shoulder. "Alice!" Lorina's voice came from beyond the door. "It really is time for bed. Is the library fire out?"_

_"Yes, Mama!" little Alice called, making her way back out into the hall. Alice watched her go. That's right – she remembered now. It had all started out as such a perfectly ordinary night. . . . **"I was the last one in the library the night of the fire,"** she murmured, turning to the fireplace and examining the soot-blackened pile of wood left inside. **"The log I added to the grate was dead when I went upstairs to bed with Dinah.** **"**_

_Except. . .she hadn't checked._

_Alice's breath caught in her throat. Little Alice hadn't checked – just waltzed right out without a care. She hadn't seen the need – hadn't she doused it quite thoroughly when Mama had called her to come get ready for bed? What was the harm in assuming it was out? And Papa had closed the door without looking either, and. . .and_ _it would so very easy for a small child to miss a stray ember, hidden under in the bark, just waiting its chance. . . ._ _Cold horror gripped her heart._ _**"** _ _**If it wasn't–** _ _**"** _ _The log_ _suddenly_ _glowed, then flared to new life, flames crackling brightly_ _– and then there was a tinkle of breaking glass, and a line of oil on the floor, allowing the fire access to the paper and smells it so craved_ _**"** _ _**– I may be responsible for my family's deaths!** _ _**"** _

**"Selfish, misbegotten child! And you dared to tell me you weren't at fault?"**

_No – no, she could not face him now. Not here. Not like this. Alice turned and bolted for the door as the room was swallowed up first by red, then by black._ **"Deny the truth all you like! It will not set you free!"**

_Smoke in her nose_ _, fire in her eyes_ _–_ and then she was out in the sea again, the door slamming shut behind her. Alice looked out into the dark water above her, sucking in a deep lungful of liquid. She could feel the weight of it pressing her down, fossilizing her in the sand. To fight that bastard twice, only to realize he was right. . . .

"No," she said immediately, shaking her head and sending her hair whipping around her face. "He wasn't right. Even if – even if that log wasn't quite dead, it was an accident. I never meant – No one can blame me for that."

_Except yourself,_ a wicked voice whispered in her brain. Alice shoved it away and started off across the rocks, looking for the right path to this mysterious Carpenter and his show. She had a schedule to keep, after all.

Good thing the water kept anyone from noticing her tears.

* * *

"Ah, Alice! Delighted to see you again, my dear. Your arrival is filled with fortunate-ality itself!"

Alice was struck dumb for a moment. The Carpenter was _not_ what she had been expecting. Granted, there were appropriately carpenter-ish things about him – he carried an oversized hammer (though he waved it about like a conductor's baton), he wore a pair of workman's overalls and an apron (appropriately tattered at the ends by life underwater), and he had long iron nails sticking out of the backs of his hands and punched through his left eyebrow, along with a pencil shoved through the top of one ear (ouch). But if it hadn't been for those clues, Alice would have never guessed this tall fellow with his arms covered in ink fish skeletons and one leg replaced by a barnacle-encrusted peg had ever worked with wood a day in his life. No solid, steady laborer this – he was theatrical in a way that would put the most over-the-top Punch and Judy show to shame, practically dancing his way across the stage spanning the front of the room. Which she supposed made sense, given they were in a theater, but still. His constant companion the Walrus was at least still recognizably a walrus, even with a tusk missing and that ridiculous little clown's hat perched atop his blubbery head. The Carpenter was – there were simply no words. He had to be experienced in person. "Really?" she said, finding her voice at last. "I didn't even know–"

"Never mind," Carpenter cut her off, waving his hands before apparently being overcome with the delusion he was a ballerina. "Today is a most frabujous day, my dear! My pregnant show is about to pop!" He dropped to one knee before her, eyes bright. "It requires only a medicament of your helpful-osity."

Oh dear, this _was_ a sight. "I don't have much experience," she giggled. "But I do need to reconstruct – my. . . ."

She trailed off as the Carpenter leaped down from the stage, striking another pose as he swung his hammer mere inches from her head. _I do wish he'd be more careful with that – one blow would knock me senseless for a month!_ "Reconstruct? Well, I was in the business – we can barter!" he offered. "I have a nice screwdriver, nearly new – or a nice hammer," he added, holding up the implement in question, "if you're more interested in–"

"There's a train that's corrupting Wonderland," Alice quickly cut in, aware that it was the only way to get a word in edgewise. "And I'm looking for help to restrain or destroy it."

The Carpenter stiffened, but only for a moment. Then he was bouncing about again, pacing the carpet before her with his chin on his hand. "Most vexatatious, no doubt! We'll address that monstrosity directly – that's to say, eventually," he continued, dashing Alice's hopes just as they began to rise. "Now, let's intermediate more important matters." He raised a point-making finger. "Due to a logisterical foul-up, some of the show's requisites need to be gathered!"

"Beg pardon?" Alice said, frowning.

"Oh, it's just a thing or three," Carpenter told her with a smile. One hand whipped out in a grand sweeping gesture. "The munificent script needs fetching! The writer's overly imaginative–" He rolled his eyes and mimed taking a swig from a bottle "–and exploring several endings." The end of his hammer found its way under his chin as he pretended to play it like a violin. "Then you'll need to assemble the show's tune-deaf music." Then his face lit up like the sun poking through the smog on a summer day as he stretched himself toward the sky. "And finally gather our stars! The show's tasty – uh, nay, taste _ful_ performers," he quickly corrected himself, scratching the back of his neck with his hammer's claw. "Oyster sisters, lovely ladies, perfect accompaniment to Walrus here!" One purple-nailed hand flapped at her. "You should leave now. The essentiality of haste is essential."

Alice gaped at him. Mock had warned her that she'd likely be playing dogsbody again, but still – was he _serious_? Script, music, actresses – was there anything he _did_ have for his oh-so-important debut? "It hardly seems you're ready for the show!" she exclaimed as he at last paused for breath. "Why can't you assemble these things yourself?"

The Carpenter shot her a deeply affronted look. "An impresario has _arrangements_!" he protested, flinging his arms to the sides. "Ducks in a row, fish to fry, coals to Newcastle, etcetera, etcetera."

"The last I checked, those arrangements _included_ having your cast, script, and orchestra on-hand. And you're not from Looking-Glass Land, where such backwards thinking would be acceptable."

"Phbbbt!" Carpenter spluttered. "We're wasting valuable time, debating things that needn't be debated!" One long tattooed arm jabbed at the sky (or whatever the watery equivalent was). "First things first – fetch the script from the writer! Then we can batter or clatter or natter as the case may be."

Well, if she had to, she had to. It was the way the world worked – even nonsensical, insane ones, it appeared. Alice put her hands on her hips with a sigh. "Fine. Is the writer cantankerous?" _That is to say, will he attempt to bludgeon me with_ _his bottle_ _on sight?_

"To a personage of _your_ distinguished repudiation?!" Carpenter gasped, then rested the back of one nail-peppered hand on his forehead in a mock fainting spell. "I blush at the notionality. He's an octopus, by the by. Lives over that way." The great hammer swooshed left before its owner turned away with a wave. "Ta ta. Let me know when everything's ready!"

"Oh come now, you can't expect me–" Alice started, then stopped as she realized Carpenter had effectively forgotten she'd existed, busying himself with twirling his gigantic tool and muttering about his mysterious "arrangements" in the corner of the room. "Idiot," she hissed under her breath, before twirling on her heel to leave (and trying to ignore her sole shouting about rug burn as she did). "This has to be the most poorly-run show I've ever heard of." She glanced over her shoulder at the pair. "Then again, perhaps that's just what one gets when one allows laborers and large sea mammals to run productions. Walrus is probably doing less damage sleeping the day away than Carpenter's doing awake and busy."

She reentered the grand entrance hall of the theater, with its rich purple carpeting and dim seashell lamps. That fish gentleman she'd seen earlier was still lingering by the front doors – he tipped his hat politely as she appeared. Alice favored him with a curtsy before taking another look around. Two staircases, made of the same salvaged wood as the rest of the theater, flanked her, curving upward slightly toward the backstage – which in this case, would be more accurately called "sidestage," since they wrapped around the main amphitheater in a tight hug. Alice headed up the one leading left, as Carpenter had indicated. This led into a smaller hall, lined with huge double doors. She wedged her fingers into the middle gap of the nearest and tugged. "Locked, of course. . . ." She tried a knock. "Hello? Mr. Octopus?"

No answer. Alice went down the line, rattling and knocking, and received only silence for her efforts. "Well, it was probably foolish of me to expect a short trip anyway," she admitted, slicing some teeth out of the sea melons stored against the back wall. (At least, they looked like melons – Alice had no idea what they really were. Some sort of spineless urchin?) "The long and hard road, that's Wonderland's way – although," she added, spotting a glimmer of light shaped like a keyhole next to the last door she'd tried – "maybe there's something of value here after all."

There was – a memory from her Nanny floating in one of the dressing rooms. The crystal feather transformed the space into the little parlor the Liddells had used as a music room, seating her at the piano's keyboard. _"If you spent as much time practicing as you do in 'Wonderland,' you'd be the next Sullivan,"_ the image of Nan Sharpe – younger now, and dressed far more appropriately for looking after children – declared, arms folded as she loomed over her charge. Then she blinked and frowned. _"Or Gilbert._ _O_ _ne of them."_

Alice chuckled as the ghostly Nan dissolved into the currents. "I doubt that, Nanny," she murmured as she investigated the makeup tables and costume trunks for other goodies, then backtracked through the keyhole and up to the doors that led back out into the Depths. "I'd never be able to play as fast as their operettas demand. And I'm sure Gilbert and Sullivan didn't have to put up with imaginary friends insisting on cutting into their practice time."

As if on cue, the Cheshire Cat appeared, tail flicking from side to side. Alice eyed him. "Convenient entrance, Cat. And what do you have to say for yourself?"

"For myself, nothing," Cheshire replied. "For you, a brief warning that another battle is imminent. Fortunately, you're sufficiently fortified to kick some aaa–" Cheshire coughed, then swallowed to regain his smooth, steady tone. "To boot these creatures' nether regions."

Alice smirked. "Why, Cat – has my best friend been rubbing off on you?" she teased. "No, wait, it can't be that – even Victor is capable of saying the word 'ass.' Since when are you such a prude?"

Cheshire's grin never faltered, but his eyes narrowed in clear annoyance. "Allow a cat not to sully his dignity with unnecessary swearing," he grumbled, fading away to just eyes and teeth. "And I hope that Victor's dislike for seafood has been rubbing off on _you_. You'll need it."

With that, he vanished entirely. Alice smirked at the spot where he'd been sitting, summoning her Hobby Horse from the ether. "Bring it on."

* * *

"If I had eeeears, they'd be huuurting!"

"I do, and they are," Alice muttered as she walked further into the tropical grotto. That drunken "artiste" of an Octopus had been right – perhaps some fish could sing, but this particular specimen was certainly not one of them. In fact, as she got closer, she realized the so-called "piscine diva" wasn't even a fish. The occupant of this bright spot of shallow sea was in fact a blue bottle that had sprouted fins, a tail, and a pair of googly eyes on long stalks. For something that normally would have been either worn away in the sand or dashed to pieces on the rocks, it looked well enough – but its voice was the whiniest, most unmusical thing she'd ever heard. _Tune-deaf isn't sufficient to describe this odd being – more tune-_ dead _._ _What on earth made you hire this thing to score your production, Carpenter? A trip to the Octopus's bottle pit, perhaps?_ She squinted. _Actually, it does look rather like one of his empties. . . ._

Still, she'd managed to retrieve the script from that self-same blobby, childish idiot, with the help of a bit of hide-and-seek. Perhaps there was hope for this creature too. Alice leapt from rock to rock, passing tall, flat-topped – flowers? No, "anemones," that's what Father's book had called them – swaying in the current, before landing on the highest of the pink stone platforms jutting out of the white sand. "Excuse my interruption," she said as the Bottle Fish aimed an eye stalk in her general direction. "I'm here on the behalf of the Carpenter. You're needed for the show, and – I'm not terribly musical, but you seem out of tune." Direct, but relatively polite, she congratulated herself. Maybe the Fish would be more inclined to be helpful if she didn't start off with "If you don't shut up I'm going to fill you with sand."

Of course, that was almost always a false hope when it came to Wonderland creatures. "It's not my faaaault," the Bottle Fish whined. "I can't hear my nooootes." It gestured with a fin to three silent shell speakers set into the mottled gray and green rock formations surrounding them. Under each was a round hole and a ramp of salvaged wood, along with some barely-visible tubing. "The pipes are ooobstruuucted."

"I can see that," Alice said, eying each in turn. Well, no, she didn't really, but she understood what the Bottle Fish meant. "Why not do something about it? Call your musicians to play in here, maybe? It's nice enough, and you wouldn't need to rely on pipes then."

"What – yeeeellll? And endanger my vooocal chords?!" the Bottle Fish gasped, bobbing up and down frantically. "That would beeeee a distasteeeeer! Besides, they're stuuuuuck in the caaaves. Some strange black gooooop."

"Ruin," Alice hissed to herself. Well, that just figured. "Can't you free them?"

"Diiiiivas do not sully their fins with suuuuuuch things," the Bottle-Fish proclaimed haughtily, turning up its "snout." One yellow eye fixed on her. "You might do iiiit for meeeee."

Oh, why was she not surprised. "Everyone here has an excuse for doing nothing!" Alice snapped, folding her arms. "Reminds me of the asylum."

The Bottle Fish made no response to this – just looked at her expectantly. Alice let out a deep, irritated sigh. _Yes, all right, I'll go unblock your stupid –_

A familiar glitter caught her eye, distracting her from her grumpiness. Not two feet away, under the diamond-patterned belly of the diva, a sparkling butterfly spun round and round, atop the umbrella-like head of a deep green anemone. She grinned, her annoyance fading. The Bottle Fish could wait a minute or two – and besides, Victor's voice would be _much_ more pleasant to listen to. She jumped onto the soft (and slightly slimy, eww) top of the flowery creature, then shattered the crystal.

_Victor's fingers danced over the piano keys, moving with a practiced grace_ _almost entirely_ _foreign to the rest of his body. The music spun out after them,_ _alive_ _with raw, wild passion. Alice_ _would have sworn_ _she could_ see _the notes_ _zipping_ _through the air, glowing white-hot as they spiraled away from the instrument_ _and into her ears_ _._ Victor's right – it _is_ like magic, _she thought_ _, grinning as the melody brought them higher and higher on wings of light and joy_ _._ Picking you up and whisking you away to a world so much brighter and freer than this one. And without a single bothersome hallucination to boot.

_The last vibrating note flew away from the keys. Alice applauded as Victor took a deep, steadying breath, wiping sweat from his brow. "That was amazing! I've never heard anything quite like it – you should do more songs like these," she declared, eyes shining with the music's leftover glow. "You're certainly talented enough."_

_Victor ducked his head, a shy smile playing on his lips."Thank you._ _I'm so glad you enjoyed it._ _I was nervous about showing off something so – lively_ _."_ _He laughed softly. "Then again, I'm almost always nervous whenever I play in front of someone."_

" _You shouldn't be – oh, I know, it's too personal for you," Alice added as he gave her a look. "But after performances like these, I can't think but think it's a shame." She touched his arm, running her fingers up and down his sleeve. "You've got a wonderful gift, Victor. I wish I could play half as well as you."_

_There was a moment's hesitation. Then Victor lifted his face to hers, biting his lip._ _**"Well – if you'd r-really like to learn piano, Alice, I. . ."** _ _He stopped and swallowed, getting up his nerve._ _**"I could give you a few lessons.** _ _**No trouble at all.** _ _**"** _

"I'd rather you perform for Carpenter and show him what real music is like," Alice murmured, hopping off the anemone as Houndsditch's foyer was whisked away by the waves. "Then again, given how topsy-turvy everything is here, he'd probably consider your talents inferior to Miss Somehow-I-Have-Vocal-Cords-Despite-Being-A-Bottle."

"I can heaaaaar you, you knooooooow."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" The diva huffed water with a faint whistle and turned away. "Fine, be like that. Just more proof that madman shouldn't be in charge of a theater. . . ."

She had to admit, she still found it rather sad her friend was so averse to playing for others. Victor was an amazing pianist, and she was sure people would cram themselves into the most expensive theaters and music halls to hear him play. Even the most ardent music-hater would have to give up their dislike after one of his performances. But it was never to be. The idea of getting up on a stage, letting the masses have a glimpse of the deep swells of joy and rage and sorrow that lurked under his unassuming skin – well, it made her poor friend sick to his stomach. Music, for him, was deeply personal. His drawings were fine for sharing – in fact, he often sought out someone to show a particularly well-done sketch to – but his compositions? Those came straight from his soul, and could not be listened to by just anyone. Particularly not a group of strangers who would be judging every note coming out of the instrument. Alice could understand, even if she did feel it a terrible loss to the music community. She wasn't the type to share her childhood stories, particularly those regarding Wonderland, with just anyone herself – they were too innocent, too pure for that. Victor and Nanny were the only people she felt truly comfortable recounting her past with (and Dr. Bumby, she supposed, but only on a professional basis). The number of people Victor actively enjoyed sharing his music with was equally small: Victoria Everglot, Emily the corpse bride –

_And me._

The thought was like a shot of Ice Snark breath, freezing her right on the threshold of the first of the three caves. She'd never really considered that before, but – it was true, wasn't it? He'd been sharing his music with her for _months_ now – ever since she'd given him that drawing of the Ball  & Socket for his birthday. He told her about new ideas he'd had for concertos and the like, didn't shy away from playing if she was in the room. . .in fact, he'd even played _for_ her a couple of times, when she was in a bad mood and needed cheering up. And she'd realized it was a privilege, yes, but – the only other person she could think of that had gotten to hear Victor play of his own volition was Emily. Was she truly the only living human he knew who had been blessed with such a gift? And that offer for lessons. . .mere desperation to share something he loved with the only person in the Home who would appreciate it? Or something – more? He'd named that piano duet with Emily as the moment he'd truly fallen in love with the corpse bride. And he'd confessed right afterward that he'd wanted to teach Victoria the instrument shortly after meeting her, wanting to share his deepest passion with the woman he'd expected to share the rest of his life with. Alice's heartbeat quickened as she twisted a piece of floating hair in her fingers. Could he truly – did wanting to give _her_ lessons mean that – just possibly –

_No, of course not!_ Alice scolded herself, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity as reality came crashing down. _You know how he is. He hates talking about love and marriage, and who could blame him?_ _He lost the first two women he ever contemplated spending eternity with – one quite literally – within a night of each other_ _._ _It's a wonder his heart isn't harder than mine when it comes to letting people in. I doubt he wants to risk leaving bachelorhood ever again after that whole mess._ _He just thinks of you as a friend_ _, you silly thing._ _A close friend, perhaps, but just a friend._ She tugged the lock of brown in punishment. _And besides_ _–_ _who would actually_ want _the girl who spent ten years in Rutledge? You know damn well how fortunate you are that he didn't run screaming_ _into the night_ _once you told him about your time in there. That he hasn't run screaming seeing you struggle for every_ _minute of sanity you can grab_ _. Stop seeing things that aren't there_ _– er, well, as much as you can at the present moment –_ _and just be grateful for what you have._

Still – knowing Victor both liked and trusted her enough to share his precious piano with her sent pleasant tingles running up and down her spine. _Maybe, when I get back, I'll ask if that offer for lessons still stands,_ she thought, entering the cave at last. _I would like to see if any of that enormous talent might rub off on me. And he's sure to be a better teacher than Nanny_ _and her never-quite-right metronome_ _._ She grimaced as she ran up the rickety driftwood slope to the top of the chamber. _Damn, I hope she's all right after what Splatter did to her. . .and to her bar. . . ._

For a fraction of a second, the Mangled Mermaid swam before her eyes, fire licking across the walls and ceiling as people screamed on the floor below. Then it was gone again, replaced by a large sandy area surrounded by rock and coral, and what looked like two tentacles holding drumsticks smothered under a thick cover of smoldering Ruin. Fresh pools of the muck bubbled up from under the sand as she jumped down, birthing a trio of Insidious and one Menacing, which greeted her with a snarl. _Worry about that later,_ she thought, readying her Vorpal Blade. _Time to give our diva her notes back! Though if it makes any difference to her voice, I'll eat my seaweed necklace._

* * *

"Ugh – uhn – there!"

Alice straightened up as the last block finally fitted into place within the frame. The oyster starlet watching from her shell let out a delighted squeal, clapping her – hands, Alice supposed, although really they were just featureless little nubs. "You fixed it!" she cried in that painfully high-pitched voice of hers ( _makes one wonder why_ she _wasn't chosen to do the music_ ). "Carpenter will be so pleased!"

"We'll see," Alice mumbled, pressing a hand against her aching spine. Ugh, whose brilliant idea was it to paste a poster to a set of easily-disassembled blocks?! She'd probably strained something racing and twirling and fighting her way to find each one, before shoving and nudging them into their proper places. What was wrong with the usual method of rolling up a sheet of paper before slapping it to a wall with glue? How were you even supposed to – well, she guessed fish passing overhead could read it well enough. Still, this was a kind of ridiculous that made one wish they could magically push a button and skip to it being finished.

"At last, I can perform at my best!" the starlet continued, fluffing her hair and heedless of Alice's aches and pains. The taxi fish patiently waiting behind her opened its toothy maw, ready to provide passage to the next part of the Deluded Depths. With a bow, she turned and fluttered off down its gullet. "Let us now resume our place before our adoring fans at the Theater!"

"Yes, let's," Alice muttered. Her eyes raked over the completed image now lying on the seabed. "'Totentanz – The Dance of Death' better have been worth all this – Death?" Her head snapped up. "You silly girl, come back! It's not a play! Come back!"

But the oyster starlet was gone, her ride already disappearing into the darkness of the ocean. Alice groaned deep in her throat. "Stupid thing. . .I'd almost say you deserve to be eaten."

She looked again at the poster, then pressed her hands against her eyes. How could she have been so foolish? She knew the poem! Or, well, she once had – Bumby's treatments had faded most of the stanzas. But the last few were clear enough, and those were the important bits. Stupid, stupid girl! Her suspicions should have been roused from the instant Carpenter had said the word "oysters." At the very least, the Octopus mentioning Walrus's assigned role as the Reaper in this farce should have given her pause. "Seems an awful lot of work to go through just to get your lunch," she muttered, poking at a loose corner on the lower left block. "And why would a community populated by fish enjoy a show all about devouring seafood?"

Well, it wasn't her fate to stand here wondering – it was to go back to the theater and have a long, angry conversation with a certain pair of idiots. Leaving the poster to rot away on the ocean floor (and good riddance), she hailed another passing fish and climbed into its welcoming jaw. _Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll catch up with her and her sisters before they get onto the stage._ _Now I wish I'd made friends with those Cannon Crabs instead of fighting them; a little extra firepower would have been appreciated._

The time spent lying on the fish's tongue in blackness seemed endless, but finally the mouth opened again, depositing her – on a thin bridge of fossilized coral and fish skeletons above a massive ravine. "What the – no, wait!" Alice called, balancing precariously on the tiny path as the fish started to turn away. "I wanted to go to the Dreary Lane Theater!"

"This is as far as I go," the fish replied. "No interest in having words carved into my flesh!" Alice, remembering the unfortunate flounder that had served as a sign into Octopus's lair, had to nod in agreement. "Besides, it's only just past the Cemetery of Lost Souls."

"Cemetery?" Alice turned carefully. Sure enough, on the other side of the bridge was a larger outcropping of dead coral, ringed with rusting iron bars – and the broken, battered corpses of innumerable sunken ships. Tattered sails hanging by threads from the shattered masts billowed out in the dark swells, while oars creaked and rudders twirled. _The Shipwreck Sharks must be livid at missing out on such a feast,_ she thought, peering past the wrecks to see a field of elaborate tombstones behind the iron. _And th_ _is_ _explains all those dead sailors I kept running into. . .you didn't just use the Sharks to construct your fortress of lies, did you, Carpenter? I'll give you that you at least gave the victims a proper burial, but that hardly makes up for your list of sins._ "Just through this?" she confirmed, pointing.

"If you're that eager to take in the show. I hear it's to die for, which is why _I'm_ staying well away."

And with a flick of its tail, the fish sped off. "Huh – seems we have _one_ sensible creature in this world," Alice remarked, before carefully edging her way along the fragile path. "Probably more than I am currently." She wobbled, extending her arms for whatever good they would do. "It's far too much to expect those interred here to be at peace, isn't it? At least I know all their tricks by now."

She'd just reached the other side and was grudgingly admiring the way the gates of the cemetery formed a skull's face when she spotted a dark shape racing through the cold blue water out of the corner of her eye. Spinning around, it resolved itself into the Walrus, Carpenter on his back, speeding toward her. As they drew near, Walrus suddenly reared up and smashed the bridge with his back fins, sending it toppling into the blackness below. Fresh anger flared up inside Alice. "If that was an attempt on my life, it was very poorly timed!" she called, fists clenched.

"What – oh," Carpenter said as Walrus pivoted to face her. "Nothing to worry about, my dear. Just cleaning up loose ends now that everything is in its proper place."

"Improper place, I'd say!" Alice shouted. "'Dance of Death' – my God, you're not an impresario, you're a killer! The mastermind of a criminal enterprise!" _Although given I doubt how much mind you have_ _, that's probably a gross exaggeration_ _._

"This world is not so 'either-or,' Alice," Carpenter replied as Walrus bobbed above the ravine, blowing bubbles from his snout. "The show will go on – it just may be those particular sisters' last show." He smirked. "Don't tell me you actually care for them."

"They're whiny and annoying, true, but they still don't deserve to be your lunch," Alice shot back, glaring. "As it is, I've done your bidding. If I'm to be responsible for those girls' deaths–" _like I might have been for my family – no, Alice, don't think about that_ "– the least you could do is hold up your end of the bargain!"

"You did a few errands, got your hands dirty – big deal," Carpenter said dismissively, his wild red hair drifting like seaweed. "It was all in the service of art!"

"Art? What sort of art is murder on the stage?"

"It serves a higher purpose! The show distraculates the crowd from the terrors around them – shame you'll miss it." His voice lowered dangerously, as did his brow. "You need to deal with these sailors. It's your time."

"Time? Time?" Walrus suddenly cut in, wriggling his massive body and almost unseating his partner. "The time has come to talk of ships, and – uh – and vegetables, and royalty, and – uh – and whether pigs have wings, and so on–"

"Enough of that, Walrus!" the Carpenter shouted, leaning down with a glare sharper than the nails hammered through his hands and eyebrow. "You start wailing about there being too much sand on the beach, I'll have your blubber for breakfast!"

If only he would, and spare those unfortunates she'd gathered for his show. "Shame on you, Carpenter," Alice scolded, folding her arms. "You made a promise."

"I had no choice," Carpenter replied, ducking his head in a vague facsimile of regret. "One can't always do as one would like." One pale green eye focused on her. "I'd have thought you'd know that by now."

"What the hell is that supposed to–"

"Never mind! Not important! The show is in labor and we must be there to deliver!" Carpenter dug his heels into Walrus's sides. "Back to the theater, you bulging beast! And this time, I don't want any complaints about butter!"

The Walrus kicked his powerful fins and shot off back the way they'd come. Alice snatched up a rock and threw it after them to relieve her feelings. "Monsters!" If only she could swim with such speed! But that was impossible, even if she grew a mermaid's tail. No, she'd just have to take her chances in the cemetery and hope that she got there soon enough to maybe save an understudy or two –

And then, behind her, came the all-too-familiar sound of something clawing its way up through the sand. Alice spun around as the rusted cemetery gates creaked open. Rising from the nearest grave was a terrible sight: a blue-skinned sailor, with bone sticking out here and there where water-logged flesh had sloughed off. A broken bottle was clutched in one withered hand, and he clenched a rotting pipe stem between yellowed teeth. White-blue eyes glowed with malice as he gazed upon her, growling like an animal deep in the remains of his throat. Alice immediately summoned her Hobby Horse, going on high alert. These bastards were tricky, and only vulnerable when stunned. _Hardly the joyous welcoming party Victor received on his visit to the underworld,_ she thought. _At least this one's not carrying bombs._ "'Die, die, we all pass away – but don't wear a frown, 'cause it's really okay?'" she sang at the corpse, hoping a knowledge of the customs Below would perhaps earn its friendship instead of its ire.

The sailor paused, cocking his head and wrinkling his brow in confusion. Then he shrugged and dove under the sand, howling like a miniature freight train as he tore his way through the ground toward her. Alice dodged backward in a rabble of butterflies as he exploded upward, bottle poised to slash open her throat. "No musical taste," she muttered. "Victor would be very disappointed, you know!"

The sailor ignored her scolding, trying a second stab before disappearing below the sand for another ambush. Alice sighed and circled around, tracking his movements carefully. "At least now I can be absolutely sure I'm not killing friends of yours," she whispered to herself. "But don't worry, Victor – I promise to spare any singing skeletons I may come across."

* * *

_POW!_

The final china face shattered. Alice allowed herself a smile of triumph as the latest Ruin creature towering over her screamed in pain. _Yes_ _! T_ _hat's you done for, you disgusting – pile of_ _–_ _oh no. . ._

The monster, rather than dissolving back into a harmless puddle like its smaller brethren, was lumbering toward her again, bone-white arms reaching out around its wide "mouth" like giant pincers, ready to snatch her up for breakfast. _No, no, no!_ Alice mentally shrieked, butterflying out of its path. _You're supposed to be dead, you loathsome beast! That's how this works!_

The beast seemed to think otherwise, waddling after her with surprising speed on its four arm-legs. She sprinted away around a spine-like spire of coral as fast as her aching limbs would allow, seeking cover. "Leave me alone!" she shrieked, spinning and peppering whatever part of the thing was closest. "I've already been down that gullet of yours! There is no need for a repeat!"

The monster groaned, then turned its maw skyward, letting out a deep roar. Moments later, huge sizzling balls of Ruin came raining down in a deadly meteor shower. Alice dodged and zipped around them, trying to keep as much distance between her and the beast as possible. But the gigantic mound of oozing tar and porcelain limbs and jagged metal pipes just kept getting closer and closer, seeking to swallow and suffocate her in its molten belly. Alice called upon the Vorpal Blade, wondering if she could at least make herself too pointy to suck all the way down –

_WHOOOOOORRRR!_

Both Alice and the Ruin jerked their heads (or whatever passed for them) skyward as the whistle echoed all around. The monster flexed its body as it seemed to listen to some inaudible command. Then then it turned to Alice with a final enraged shriek – a promise that their battle was not yet over – before slamming itself into the sands, slithering away down some unknown burrow. Alice nearly collapsed in relief as it disappeared. _Oh God. . .and here I was sure Menacing Ruins were the worst of the lot!_ she thought, leaning against the coral spire and panting. _But that – that_ Colossal _Ruin. . ._ _if not for that call, I don't think I would have won that one_ _. I wonder why it – no, you know what? I don't care. I'm just glad I wasn't expected to kill it! . . .this time, anyway._

With that disturbing thought in mind, Alice refreshed herself with some roses gathered from a pair of convenient treasure chests, then smashed her way through the brittle Ruin barrier blocking the exit from the impromptu battle arena. _I've got to get back to_ _the Theater,_ she thought, making her way up the slope beyond. _Carpenter may be a p_ _arsimonious, pettifogging moron, and no friend to oysters, but_ _I'd bet my last pound he's rounded up all of Barrelbottom for his grand performance. Which makes it the perfect place to warn everyone they're in danger from_ _–_ _what is that_ smell _? God, have I managed to wander back onto the docks in my haze? The world's suddenly ripe with rotting –_

_fish. . . ._

Her jaw dropped. Directly to her left, stretching out in gore-laden glory beneath the supports of another building whose construction had devoured a Shipwreck Shark or two, was – carnage. Dozens upon dozens of fish men and women lay piled in haphazard lumps between the forest of beams, their clothing stripped off and their skin torn away to reveal glistening, gnawed muscles and bone. Others had been nailed to beams, their guts pinned open for display, or hung from the ceiling on hooks, fins fluttering uselessly in the currents. All wore the same expression of pop-eyed horror, mouths gaping open in silent screams. Their blood soaked the sand at least two feet from the entrance to the man-made cave of horrors, and the water was rancid with the stench of decaying meat. Alice pressed her lips together tightly, doing her best to hold back vomit. _Good lord, what_ happened _?_

Piteous moaning – barely audible, yet still insistently present – drew her attention. Wading _very_ carefully into the sea of bodies ( _why_ had Wonderland not given her shoes with this dress?!), Alice saw a most peculiar creature crucified against a hanging anchor. His body was at least human enough to warrant the wearing of a neat blue tailcoat and black pants, but his head was clearly that of a shellfish – a nautilus, she thought, examining the orange stripes curling around the U-shaped shell. It resembled the picture in Papa's book well enough, at any rate. A blood-speckled saw was stuck halfway into what passed as his forehead, as if someone had been trying to crack him open only to abandon the endeavor as too difficult. There was also a badge pinned to his chest – Alice leaned forward to read the word "Mayor" printed in neat gold letters on the red circle. "I didn't even know Barrelbottom had a government," she murmured, reaching up and twisting her fingers into his tentacles. He groaned, seeking what comfort he could from the touch. "Mayor of nothing but a grave now, though. I wish I could ask you what went wrong."

"Every picture tells a story. Sometimes we don't like the ending. Sometimes we don't understand it."

Alice jerked her head to the side, but Cheshire was already fading from sight. Her lips tightened again, this time into a deep frown. Obtuse and roundabout as always, but the Cat did have a point. This picture did tell a story – and she did _not_ like the ending. Hadn't she already worked out that Walrus and Carpenter's big "show" was simply an excuse to eat the stars? Why should she be surprised that they were willing to do the same to the audience? "No wonder they tried to get me killed fighting those shades," she muttered. "What monsters. . . ."

Well, she wasn't dead yet – and judging by the look of the architecture here, she was just outside the diabolical duo's headquarters. "Hang on, sir – I'll see if I can't get you some revenge," she told the Mayor, extracting her fingers from his suckers. Then she turned and ran up the wooden ramp leading out of the slaughter and into the pink-tinted darkness of backstage Dreary Lane Theater. Wiping her red feet on the carpet, she flicked the Vorpal Blade into her hand, the scent of blood deep in her nostrils.

Time for the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the doorknob sprouting a face is indeed a reference to the animated-Disney-Alice original character -- felt appropriate! And the various mentions of mermaids are references to the fact that Alice WAS at one point supposed to have a mermaid tail for at least part of the Deluded Depths. I think you can work out Alice wanting a magic button to auto-solve block puzzles for yourselves. ;)


	9. Splatter Gets What He's Owed

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London’s East End, England

7:50 A.M.

“What’s going – Oh hell!”

“Someone get the fire brigade!”

“There goes my plans for the night. . . .”

“Eva! Are you all right?”

“Yeah, though I lost my best skirt! Lucky I had time to yank up my drawers!”

“What happened? Who did it?”

“Have no idea! Place just went up like a Chinese firecracker! Oi, you! You see anything?”

"No," Victor murmured as he stood in the center of the rapidly-growing crowd, eyes locked on the burning brothel. Around him, people chattered frantically, checking on friends and gawking at the growing destruction. The rain had chosen the absolute worst moment to stop, leaving the flames free to devour the Mangled Mermaid without hindrance. And devour they did – the entire upper level was completely ablaze, glowing a fierce and frightful yellow-orange against the black sky. Downstairs wasn't doing much better, judging by the smoke pouring out every crack it could find. _I bet it’ll all be rubble by lunchtime,_ Victor thought, clamping his hands together. _Oh_ _God_ _, imagine if Alice_ _was here to_ _see this! She’d be screaming in her sleep for the rest of the month, I’m sure._ _I can't believe I'm saying this, but thank God that man was wrong about her coming this way!_ _At least, I’m pretty sure he was wrong. . . ._ Managing to wrench his eyes away from the hellscape before him, he turned and scanned the crowd. Nope – no sign of her. _Hopefully she's well away from this catastrophe, holed up somewhere safe and dreaming of a better world._

“Well, well, well, look who’s here! Finally decided to sample some of the wares? I could have offered you a better price than that fat tit.”

Oh, _wonderful_.  That was _just_ the voice he wanted to hear at a time like this. Victor bit back a groan. “Mr. Splatter, would it do any good to ask you to leave me alone?”

“No,” Jack Splatter, pimp among pimps, said with a terrible grin as he sidled up to him. “I thought you were against women making an honest living. What brings a boy like you over to the Mangled Mermaid?”

“Personal business,” Victor snapped, then slapped his hand against his face. “Oh, I walked into that one. . . .”

Splatter laughed. “Not such a moral crusader now, are you, Van Dort?”

“No! I mean, yes – I mean – I’m looking for Alice!” Victor glared at the man. “I don’t suppose _you’ve_ seen her.” Ugh, it galled him to have to ask _Jack Splatter_ of all people about Alice’s whereabouts, but the fact of the matter was, Splatter was one of the best sources of information on these mean streets. He had the largest web of prostitutes in the East End under his command, after all – and Victor knew all too well how much the pimp enjoyed harassing Alice about joining the ranks. If anyone could give him a lead, it was this tosser.

“Actually, as a matter of fact, I have,” Jack Splatter replied, smirking. “Your favorite girl decided to stick her nose into a private matter between me and my ladybird.”

Victor blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“I told Sharpe to get those fat, good-for-nothing whores out onto the street, but she insisted on making things difficult,” Splatter explained with relish. “Hurt me feelings, she did. So I went up there and gave her a bit of a talking-to.”

Victor, who was familiar with what Splatter’s “talkings-to” consisted of, felt a spark of anger light inside him. “How dare you! Madam Sharpe doesn’t work for you, does she?”

“We had an arrangement – which she decided wasn’t worth keeping up,” Splatter declared with a shrug. “Not my fault if that fat old blower doesn’t know what’s good for her. What do you care, anyway? You don’t know Miss Ladybird.” He suddenly grinned, yellowed teeth gleaming in the firelight. “But maybe you care about me giving Alice a smack over the ear for not keeping her mouth shut.”

Oh, Victor cared. The spark kindling deep within his breast swelled, becoming a fire to rival the one ravaging the Mermaid. He didn’t think he’d been this angry with anyone since Lord Barkis had tried to drag Victoria away to her doom at sword point. “You _hit_ her?” he snarled, his hands bunching into fists.

“Knocked her cold,” Splatter said proudly. “Didn’t even hit her that hard. ‘Course, can’t expect a silly little tail like her to take a few lumps.” He cracked his knuckles and gave Victor a shark’s smile. “Don’t think you’re gonna be upright for more than a minute yourself. Unless you ain’t interested in defending her honor?”

Little sparks of pain flew from his palms as his nails bit into the flesh, but Victor barely noticed. He was well and truly seething now, vision as red as the burning timbers. _Just once. It’ll be worth all the bruises in the world to punch this disgusting Haymarket Hector in the face just once,_ he thought, his arm already starting to tense for the blow. _Alice might lecture me on not getting into it with him_ _, but even she –_

_Wait. He just admitted he saw her. Confessed to knocking her senseless, in fact. Inside the Mermaid._

_And I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in the crowd._

Icy horror extinguished rage as surely as a bucket of water on a flame. Victor spun to face the brothel again, forgetting Splatter’s presence entirely. _She’s still in there. She’s unconscious or trapped_ _or simply too frightened to move. Or maybe even – s_ _he might – might_ _be_ _–_ “ALICE!”

His legs exploded into motion, propelling him through the crush of people. “Hey!” Splatter yelled, lunging for his arm. “We ain’t done here, you stinking toff! Bleedin' coward – nobody runs from–”

Victor whirled, letting sheer momentum carry his fist straight into Splatter’s jaw. The crack of bone against bone sent shockwaves up his arm and left his fingers stinging red, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He'd dueled an enraged lunatic wielding a stolen sword with a barbeque fork, after all. A mere punch was child's play. He whipped back around and started running again as the astonished Splatter stumbled backward, not wanting to give the man a chance to recover and return the swing. Behind him, he heard Splatter curse – then a crunch of something hitting wood. Glancing back for half a second, he saw the pimp lying unconscious next to a packing crate, with a bunch of fisherman gaping in a half-circle around him. "That swell just nobbled Splatter!” one yelled, pointing. "Knocked him clean over!"

Victor grinned madly. Oh God, he had! He'd just sent _Jack Splatter_ flying arse over teakettle! Fantastic! But it would all be for naught if he didn't get to Alice in time. Swallowing back the near-hysterical giggles trying to escape, he shoved his way through the mass of people before him, dodging and weaving into whatever gaps he could find. Cries of shock and indignation followed him: “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“No respect for ladies! World’s getting worse by the minute, Maxie.”

“What’s a swell like _him_ doing here?”

“Idiot! If I ever get my hands on you–”

“Where are you going? Wait, you’re not – stop! Get back!"

“You can’t go in there! You’ll be killed!”

“Yeah, one less rich boy in the world, that’s a _real_ loss. . . .”

Victor ignored them all. His world now consisted of one thing – the front door to the Mangled Mermaid. Ducking under someone's attempt to grab him, he broke free of the crush, racing to the entrance. The door smoldered dangerously as he neared, but he ripped it open regardless. 

Hot air blasted him in the face, forcing him to recoil a step. "Aaaah!" Inside, he could see nothing but eye-searing red and orange. Paradoxically, he found himself thinking of the icehouse he'd just traversed. This place was that's infernal opposite – and if he got stuck against anything here, he'd almost certainly see Downstairs again much sooner than he'd like. For a moment, his resolve wavered as the animal urge to run away made itself known. 

Then, piercing through the crackle of the flames and the chatter of the crowd, came a high-pitched scream. Terror throttled instinct. "Alice!" Yanking his soaking jacket over his head for a shield, Victor plunged into Perdition's pit.

If the exterior of the Mangled Mermaid was a glimpse at Pastor Galswells's favorite vision of Hell, the interior was the full Time-Of-Judgment-Featuring-Dante-And-Virgil experience. The fire was all around here, slurping up every last scrap of wood it could find with a multitude of orange, red, and yellow tongues. A charred privacy screen crunched beneath Victor's shoes as he ventured further into the main room, white steam hissing off his clothes and mixing with the charcoal-colored smoke to paint black streaks across his face. "Alice?!"

No reply but the roar of the flames and a twisted, garbled noise that nevertheless Victor recognized as a popular tune. He peered through the screen of grey to find a player piano burning in the corner, still determinedly providing a soundtrack to the chaos even as its internals melted into slag. And near it – was that a woman's head? "Alice!" he cried in relief, stumbling through the maze of upended chairs and tables. "I'm so happy to see – oh. . . ."

The head of the mermaid statue stared back at him with soot-blackened eyes. Victor turned away from her judging gaze, coughing. Damn it. . .he couldn't afford to make stupid mistakes like that! The danger was far too great! Clamping his handkerchief over his face to hide it from the smoke (and the smell – cheap varnish stank even worse when you set it alight), he edged around a crackling table, trying to orient himself. The bar seemed to be directly ahead, covered with abandoned cups and bottles. They glowed cherry-red as the fire caressed their fragile bodies, providing a kind of beacon in the haze. Victor started toward it – 

Only to have to throw himself to the ground when the heat-strained glass abruptly popped, sending a shower of foul-smelling beer and sharp jagged edges across the room. He lay there for a moment, trembling. This was by far the most terrifying thing he'd ever done in his life. Could Alice really even still be alive in this mess? And if she was, was it actually in his power to rescue her?

 _You'll never know unless you try – and you_ do _know the guilt of not trying will haunt you forever if you give up now,_ he told himself. He pushed himself back to his feet, wiping his eyes clear with his hanky. One foot hit something hot and runny, and he looked down to see himself leaving a trail of wax from a liquidized candle. He wiped it off on what remained of the rug, lest his shoe get scorched beyond wearing. “Alice!” he called, pausing a moment to cough again. "Are you in here?!"

“Mocking, blubbery glutton! You’re not half the thespian you think you are! Not a quarter! Not an _eighth_!”

“I ain't claiming to be, you daft girl! You want to end up cooked just like your parents and sister? Stay with me, Alice!”

The voices came from above his head, though how anyone could survive up there was beyond Victor. Gathering his nerve, he made a mad dash for the stairs, taking the sizzling steps two at a time. At the top, he found a middle-aged, rather heavy-set woman with an old peacock feather stuck in her hair wrestling with Alice. The woman – Madam Sharpe, Victor guessed – was attempting to drag her away from a room completely consumed by flame, while Alice clawed and kicked like a cornered alley cat. Victor recognized his friend’s wide, unseeing gaze from the incident with the wardrobe. _Oh no – why hallucinate_ now _?_ “Alice!” he cried, stepping forward.

Sharpe's head jerked his way. “What the – where did you come from?” she demanded.

Alice, however, took advantage of the distraction to slip out of her arms. “Wicked thing! Feasting while Wonderland is destroyed!” she shouted, jabbing her finger at a burning loveseat.

“Bloody forget about Wonderland! It’s you who’s about to be destroyed!” Sharpe yelled.

Victor darted forward, grabbing Alice by the shoulders and giving her a hard shake. He hated to handle her so roughly, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Alice! No one here is your enemy! Please, wake up!” he begged.

Alice looked through him, green eyes glinting with rage. “Appeasement? As if _you_ don’t share in the spoils!” she snapped, fists clenched.

“Are you an idiot or a practiced fool, my girl?” Madam Sharpe groaned. “Shouldn't fire be the one thing that sends you running, mad or no?”

“Nobody’s sharing in the spoils today,” Victor said, hoping that by playing along a bit he could convince her to at least go down the stairs. “Alice, we’re in terrible danger! We need to escape this place before it comes down around our ears!”

Alice glared at him a moment longer, looking ready to twist free – then, suddenly, her face lost all color. “Oh, no – who set that bloody train in motion? Where has it come from?!” she gasped, pressing her hands against her mouth.

“Train?” Victor stared at her, baffled. What in God’s name did that mean? What did a train have to do with anything? What on earth was _happening_ in her Wonderland?

A loud creak from the ceiling made him look up. The cheap plaster above them bulged and cracked, dripping flame. Running on pure adrenaline, Victor yanked his friend into his arms and whirled them both away – just as a massive beam came smashing down, landing right where they'd been standing. Panting, Victor pressed Alice close to his chest, trying to shield her from any further danger. _Is this what you went through, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Liddell?_ he thought, yielding briefly to the desire to hack up a lung. _What_ _an awful way to die._

Alice hit his shoulder with a loose fist, squirming in his grasp. “Stop it! Let me go! You’re not allowed to hug me like Victor, Carpenter!”

“I _am_ Victor!” Victor cried, pulling away to look her full in the face.

Alice blinked – then, finally, her eyes focused on him. “Oh, so you are,” she said, a smile flickering across her lips. “Good.”

And with that, she slumped over, dead to the world. Victor grabbed her before she could hit the floor. “Alice? Alice!” he cried, shaking her. Her limbs flopped about like a rag doll's. "Alice!!"

“Don’t bother,” Sharpe said, coming up behind him. “Probably better this way. Can't try to escape.” She laid a meaty hand on his shoulder, pushing him toward the stairs. “So – you’re Victor then?”

“Victor Van Dort, yes,” Victor said, scooping Alice into his arms. Another flaming beam took out the far end of the upstairs hall, making him jump. “And you’re her nanny?”

“Nan Sharpe,” the woman confirmed with a nod. “Pleasure to meet you at last, though I wish the circumstances were better."

"Me too," Victor said as they hurried down the steps, trying to ignore the way the wood groaned under their weight. A third crash from behind signaled the probable end of the wicked loveseat. "Alice’s told me a lot about you. How you helped her get back–” he paused to cough again "–on her feet after the asylum."

"Yeah, she let me know about you too," Sharpe said as they reached the ground floor. A fiery splinter landed on her shoulder and was flicked away. "Said you were rich, and kind, and handy with a pen.” She smiled at him through a bruised and blackened face. “Never said you were so brave and so stupid.”

“I couldn't just leave her – not after Jack Splatter said he'd knocked her silly – cah cah – in here,” Victor protested, edging through the broiling maze to the entrance. God, this smoke was choking his lungs. . . . “She's my – ahem – my best friend!”

The look Madam Sharpe gave him, sharper and more probing than he'd like, seemed to last forever. “Brave and stupid,” she repeated at last, shaking her head. “Come on, let's get some fresh air. Maybe the cold will bring her round – and force her to speak sense.” She frowned at her former charge, limp in Victor’s arms, as she squeezed through a gap in the greedy flames. “I really thought she was doing better. Gotten past that asylum nonsense.”

“Me too,” Victor whispered, gazing down at Alice’s face. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing steady, as if she were just having a little nap. Even with the fire casting odd shadows across her features, she looked completely at peace. You’d hardly believe she’d just had a psychotic episode. “But she’s–" hack, cough "– excuse me – been wandering around in this state for a week, and I – I d-don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you just saved her life,” Sharpe said, shoving open what remained of the front door. “And probably mine too. That’s got to count for something.” Grabbing his shoulder, she gently steered him out into the light.

The crowd had swelled since Victor had seen it last, joined by a number of men with buckets – what passed for firemen in this part of the city, he supposed. A smattering of spontaneous applause broke out as the pair stumbled out onto the street. “Save it!” Sharpe yelled, wiping her face with the back of her hand, as Victor busied himself with sucking as much clean (well, cleanish) air into his chest as possible. “Where’s that scumsucker Splatter?”

“Arse over teakettle and not getting up anytime soon, thanks to the swell,” a voice called. Victor straightened to see the bulldog-faced man he'd spoken to before standing over the pimp's unconscious form, new respect in his eyes. “Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with me own eyes! You secretly play rugby, you twig?”

“No – just lucky,” Victor admitted, pride suffusing through him.

Sharpe stared at the man, then turned her shocked face to Victor. “ _You_ –" Victor nodded and beamed before succumbing to yet another coughing fit. "Hell, there’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” She glanced back in Splatter’s direction. “Wish I'd seen it myself. . .but best be off before he wakes. Don’t particularly feel like trying to deal with him after this mess – and besides, some of my girls need to be warned they ain’t got a place to sleep tonight.”

“Fine by me,” Victor assured her. "I really need to get Alice back to the Home anyway."

"You stick with me for now," Sharpe said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Might need a helping hand if she wakes up a mess again."

Victor had no objections to that either – especially after seeing Alice nearly burn herself alive. He gladly followed her as she went round the back of the burning building, leaving the gawkers to gawk and the firemen to throw their buckets at whatever they could salvage. The back of the Mermaid looked no better than the front, with flames shooting out the upstairs windows and more of the roof disappearing with every minute. Victor watched it for a moment, quietly stunned. _And I ran straight into that without a second thought. . . ._ “I’m very sorry about your business,” he said, wincing at the sound of shattering glass.

“Better the business than me," Madam Sharpe remarked philosophically. "Kind of you to say, though – especially since Alice has told me you don’t think much of the girls around here." She waved at a man unloading a cart nearby. "Hey, you! Get over here, I got hiring to do!"

It was a good thing he was already pink from his adventure. “I just want to be left alone when I say no," he mumbled as the man ambled over. "That doesn’t mean I want any of you to die in a fire.”

“Ungh. . . .”

Victor's head snapped down. Alice was beginning to stir, flexing her body like a hungry caterpillar trying to reach a leaf. Her eyes fluttered open as he watched, glazed and unfocused. "Alice?" he inquired anxiously.

She glanced up at him, then looked left and right, her expression confused. She groaned loudly. Then her eyes slid shut again, and her head thunked against his chest. Victor sighed. _Maybe it's better though; she didn't look quite herself._

Madam Sharpe tched sadly as she watched the scene. “Almost like she was back in Rutledge, poor girl. She tell you about that?”

“A little,” Victor said, shuddering as stories of leeches and electric chairs danced through his memory. "Not much, though."

“Yeah, not surprised. She don't like to think about – and really, she wasn't around for most of it. Headwise, I mean." She touched Alice's hair, brushing it back from her face. "If she wasn’t comatose, she gaped, eyes like pinwheels. Drooled, screeched, but almost never uttered a sensible sound – until they tried fixing up her rabbit, what I hear.” She shook her head. “At least she’s not spewing out what she kept screaming when they first brought her in – ‘My past is dead,’ ‘I killed them,’ ‘I should have saved them,’ ‘I should have died. . . .’ Poor thing. Her mind was in shambles.”

“I fear it is a-a-again,” Victor mumbled, hacking out some last wisps of smoke caught in his throat. “Ugh. . .I just want her to be well – to stay with us in the real world for longer than a few minutes. Is that really too much to ask?”

“Not for me to say,” Sharpe sighed. “You just keep a close eye on her – make sure she can’t run off again before we get out of here.” She turned back to the man, who was watching the scene with cautious interest. “That cart for rent? Three of us need to get over to Threadneedle Street in the West End. . . .”

Victor looked back down as Madam Sharpe negotiated with the driver. His friend was frowning now in her sleep, as if she disapproved of whatever was playing in the theater of her mind. Now and again she muttered and groaned. Victor's heart gave a painful twist as he watched her. What torments were her brain delivering to her now? Why couldn't it let her be? Her hallucinations had just nearly made her commit inadvertent suicide – wasn’t that enough for one day?

And there was still the question of the train. He furrowed his brow, considering. Alice _had_ mentioned a railway in Wonderland before – the Looking-Glass Line, under the command of the Mock Turtle. But that couldn’t be the train she’d been talking about. She’d know where that one came from, and who'd set it in motion. So from what mysterious railroad had this new locomotive sprung? And what was it doing to her? She'd been so frightfully pale when speaking of it, eyes shining with terror. . .was _it_ responsible for her decreased mental state, somehow? Was it rampaging through her skull, tearing her psyche to pieces – forcing her back into insanity? God, he hoped not. The very thought made his stomach knot up. “Please, Alice – fight the train,” he whispered to her as the weak sun finally broke through the clouds. “Stop it, crash it, derail it. Just–” He closed his eyes, cradling her close. “Just don’t leave me.”


	10. Ride of Reconnection

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London’s East End, England

8:09 A.M.

The scent of smoke was deep in her nostrils, and her head ached like she'd had a few dozen nails pounded into it. Alice groaned, eyelids fluttering as she tried to make sense of it all. Had Carpenter attacked her in the end after all? Had the Train run her over despite his best efforts to shield her? And why did it feel like she was moving? “Uhhh. . .what?”

“Alice? Are you all right?”

The slow return of consciousness abruptly leaped forward upon hearing that voice. Alice jerked her head up, blinking. “Victor?”

It was indeed her friend, leaning over her with wide, anxious eyes. The poor man looked as if he'd been through a war – hair sticking up at odd angles, skin stained with smudgy patches of black and irregular splotches of pink, and clothing ripped and charred. _And I thought I was having a hard time of it in Wonderland. What in God's name has he done to himself?_ “Alice?” he repeated, swallowing. “You – cah, ahem – you are w-with us, right?”

“Where else would I – no, don’t answer that, I know far too well. Yes, I’m here,” Alice confirmed, rubbing her eye. Not that she knew where “here” was. Back in London, of course, that was obvious enough, but she didn't recall having sky overhead when she collapsed. She gave a little cough of her own to clear the smuts of the Infernal Train from her lungs. "Did you find me in the Mangled Mermaid?"

"What's left of it," another familiar voice said. Alice glanced up to see her nanny looming large (not that a woman so heavyset had a choice) above her, not looking any better than Victor. Alice winced as she noted the circle of purple around the woman's left eye. "Splatter ain't one to welsh, that's for certain."

It was on the tip of Alice's tongue to ask what Nanny meant by that, when suddenly the pimp's voice entered her ear again. _"_ _Y_ _ou_ _w_ _on't give me what I want, I'll burn this dump of yours_ _down_ _to the ground!"_ Horror seized her, and she scrambled to her feet for a better view of her surroundings. "Be careful!" Victor cried, flinging out an arm to guard her against falling.

Alice paid the injunction no mind, head swiveling like an owl's. She and her friends proved to be the passengers of a rickety wooden cart, clip-clopping its way down one of the East End's many back alleys. Around them, houses and businesses leaned toward each other, their lopsided attics nearly kissing. Before them, the early risers milled about, preparing for the business of the day. And behind –

Her heart stopped beating for a moment. Behind them, the Mangled Mermaid glowed yellow-pink against the light gray sky, black smoke pouring from every crack as if it sought to replace the recently-departed rain clouds. There was a small crowd of people gathered around, gawking much like her at the flames slithering out the windows and sneaking their way up onto the roof. A man in a laborer's cap tossed a bucket at the back door, and was rewarded with a hiss of steam. It was all far too familiar a scene, and it took every ounce of willpower Alice possessed not to let her mind overwrite the dying building with her family's destroyed homestead. _O_ _h God. O_ _ne lamp did all that. . . ._

“Your friend here raced right into the thick of that mess,” Nanny said, her voice miles away in Alice's ears. “Came at just the right time, too, given the way you were carrying on. Might have been able to get you out myself, but he was a big help." A hand Alice had once seen crack a walnut pushed her into the seat opposite Victor. "Now sit before you smack your head on the cobbles and make it all for nothing. How _are_ you, Alice?”

"I don't know. . . ." With an effort, Alice tore her gaze away from the blaze to do a self-assessment. Like Victor, her skin was a brilliant pink in spots, but she recognized the shade as more the kind of burn you got from a day at Brighton than like anything she'd picked up from her mad dash down to her parents' room eleven years ago. She'd be no worse for wear by the end of the next day, which was a distinct relief. Her face still stung a little, though, and on her tongue – ugh! “The blood in my mouth tastes like bile,” she reported, resisting the urge to spit. She poked her tongue against her teeth – no, none were loose (another small miracle). Perhaps she’d bitten her cheek without realizing before falling unconscious. She'd done that before many a time in Rutledge when they'd forced her to eat. Nurse Cratchit had slapped her once for it, though the woman's backhand was no match for Jack Splatter's fist –

 _Splatter!_ Alice's fingers tightened on her apron. What had become of him? Had that accursed ripper walked right out of the Mermaid without a care in the world?  “Where’s the brute that hit me, Nanny?”

“Nasty prat’s out cold,” Nanny said, glowering in the direction of the docks. “Not dead, and more’s the pity.” She shook her head. “What were you thinking butting into that mess, Alice? You could have been killed!”

"You could have been too," Alice retorted, frowning. "If he hadn't decided to leave his cleaver in Long Tim's stomach."

"Shit, that's how he got upstairs?" Nanny wiped some soot off her face. "Poor Tim. . .hopefully I'll have something left to hawk to give him a proper burial. He was a good bloke."

"I'm sure he's in a better place now," Victor told her.

Nanny gave him a small smile. "Guess you'd know, wouldn't you? Oh, don't look so surprised, everybody 'round here knows you say you went underground and found all the corpses livin' it up. Wouldn't mind believing it real now – Tim needs a good drink after getting his guts torn out."

"Maybe the Mangled Mermaid ended up down there too," Alice said, resisting the urge to look back. "I mean, the Ball & Socket had to come from somewhere, didn't it?"

Victor's somewhat-embarrassed expression turned thoughtful. "I never considered that. . .it makes as much sense as anything else relating to Below." Then his eyes and voice became as hard as diamond. "Which is where I thought you were going to end up – how badly did that bastard hurt you?” 

Oh dear, she should have expected this. Jack Splatter had a real talent for getting up Victor’s nose. Her friend considered the pimp the living embodiment of everything that was wrong with the East End. Which Alice admitted was not far off the mark, but Victor sometimes forgot that those things included a tendency toward extreme violence. Couple that with strong chivalrous instincts instilled in him from a life in the bread just beneath the upper crust, plus a habit of rushing into things without thinking when he was upset, and it was no surprise he and Splatter had butted heads a couple of times. At least Splatter saw Victor as little more than an occasional annoyance. Alice was quite sure her friend would have had to make a few surreptitious visits to Dr. Tewsbury if things were otherwise. “I’m fine," she told him, laying a hand on his arm. "He knocked me silly, true, but I've been making a habit of falling unconscious lately anyway. I’m upright now, and that’s the main thing.”

Victor opened his mouth as if to argue, but was cut off by a few violent coughs. "Sorry," he whispered as he got his breath back. "I thought I'd gotten all the smoke out." Then he sighed, gaze dropping to his scorched (and waxy? One looked as if it had been dipped in a candle) shoes. “I – I just wish I'd made it there earlier. I was only a few minutes behind, you know. If I hadn't had to go the long way through the icehouse, maybe – maybe I could have stopped him doing any of it.”

“More likely Splatter would have made mincemeat out of you,” Nanny said, though not without fondness. “Yeah, I know, you just knocked him on his arse–” Alice’s jaw dropped “– but even you admitted that was a lucky hit. If he'd been at his best, with a knife in his hand – well, you’d have probably been in the same mess we were in, if not worse.” She patted his back. “Not discounting your bravery, mind. More than half the blokes 'round here would do to even try a punch. And hell, if he went over like that, you must have a pretty decent arm!”

That got a small smile. "Thank you."

Alice stared at him. Victor had – were her ears playing tricks on her? But they usually did that in conjunction with her eyes, and this all seemed real enough. . . . “We – we appreciate the sentiment,” she said slowly. “At least, I – I know I do – I'm sorry, did you _really_ just knock out _Jack Splatter_?”

The smile changed into a smirk. “I did indeed,” he said, puffing himself up with pride before a cough forced him to deflate a little. “Like Madam Sharpe said, it was mostly luck – that and catching him completely off guard – but I punched him right in the jaw when he tried to keep me from going in to find you. Fell right over and almost broke his head on a packing crate." He fiddled with his fingers a moment. "Perhaps I shouldn’t have done so, but I was utterly furious, and – forgive me, the satisfaction of knowing I sent him practically flying more than makes up for any consequences.” 

Alice couldn't help smiling back. "Well, then, I'm very glad you got one over on him. God knows he deserved it."

"Damn straight," Nanny agreed. "They're all alike, demandin' money they didn't earn. Wish he'd get a smack every time he tried that nonsense."

"If I could be assured of not ending up like Long Tim, I'd gladly give him one," Victor told her, tone hard again. Then it softened as he turned back to Alice, taking her hand in his. “That said – you’re _sure_ you’re all right?”

Oh, how she wanted to tell him “yes” and be done with it – but it was impossible to refuse those pleading eyes of his. Worse than a puppy dog. “Physically, yes. Mentally – not so much,” she confessed, sandwiching his hand between hers. “My mind’s in pieces, Victor. I’m having terrible visions of Wonderland in peril.”

“I know,” Victor said, lightly squeezing her fingers. “You, ah, called me Carpenter right before you – blacked out.”

"Did I?" Alice searched her memories. The Infernal Train had thundered into the theater, a roaring beast from the depths of the Inferno. . .Carpenter had shoved her out of the way, before shielding her with his body as the monster rumbled past. . .then his touch had turned far too familiar for her liking, causing her meager gratefulness for the protection to give way to annoyance as she was pressed hard against his breast. . .and then, suddenly, his pierced and elongated visage had transformed into the face of her best friend, sooty, frightened, and framed by fire. And it had all been just a _little_ too much to take after the grand finale of Totentanz, meaning her recollections ended there in darkness. “My apologies, Victor. I was dealing with a man by that name in Wonderland,” she explained, blushing.

“I thought you were hung up on a walrus," Nanny said, before hitting her with a deep frown. "Honestly, Alice, you're still on about that?"

“Not by choice,” Alice replied, striking back with her own glower. Carpenter’s last speech to her echoed in her mind: _"_ _. . .consider the prospect you have been misled, Alice! Then ask, by whom?_ _"_ Well, she was quite certain she’d been misled by Witless a fair number of times. But if that old bint was the answer to Carpenter's question, she take up Blue Ruin herself. So who else could it be? She didn't know that many people, and she trusted even fewer. Victor she wouldn't even consider as a possibility. Dr. Bumby – he knew about her past, but he was hardly obliged to share every thought he had on the subject with her. And what could he possibly gain by lying about them? Nanny kept her secrets close too, but Alice considered herself very well-versed in reading the woman. There were always the doctors at Rutledge, she supposed. . .or Radcliffe, that fat git. . . .

She coughed again, then sighed. She wasn't up for this right now. There was something rotten in the state of Wonderland, and her puzzler was much too sore to figure it out herself. And with the natives being their usual utterly incomprehensible selves, all she could do was reach out to the woman who'd known her since childhood and hope she'd be kind enough to provide an answer or two. “Something’s gone terribly wrong in my mind, Nanny. Corruption and pollution reign, destroying everything in their path. And – and I think it has to do with–”

“The fire,” Nanny finished for her, a weary note in her voice. “Same as always. You need to move on, Alice – so do I.”

Alice rolled her eyes. "You are aware that 'moving on' is the whole reason I'm at Houndsditch?"

"Looks more to me like you're going backwards."

"It's not my fault that Bumby's treatments have tended more toward quackery than cure. I swear to you that I wrestle quite regularly with my mind's inability to let the past go. The problem is, I never win." She huffed and leaned on a hand. "I would love to simply forget it all and live solely in the future. Suffering really should have a proper time limit."

"Almost twelve years does seem about long enough," Nanny agreed.

“Were you there the night of the fire?” Victor asked, looking up at the older woman.

“No – I was visiting my sister out of town,” Nanny replied, rubbing her good eye. “Came back to find my employers dead, my charge in the madhouse, and myself out of a job. Before you ask, I _would_ have taken her in, but. . .well, they told me she was going to be in there a while, and without any money. . . .”

“Alice told me as much before," Victor said with an understanding nod. He tried to smile. “I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Yeah – trouble is, my best wasn’t good enough.”

They fell silent for a bit as the cart continued its steady path along the cobbles. As they passed under an arch, bright red splashes against the sky caught Alice's attention. Looking around, she realized they were passing through Limehouse, London's personal stewpot of China, Japan, and all those other places that provided the average citizen with someone to gawk at. The shops and stalls were roughly the same construction as anywhere else in the city, but the windows were bedecked with mysterious characters painted in gold, dioramas of folded paper, and charms carved from jade. The tradesmen here hid their Oriental faces under broad straw hats, and babbled to each other in languages that sounded as if someone had put their voice through a washing wringer, before reaching out to passers-by with the few shards of English at their command. "Very good fruit!" one called to them, waving something green. "Cheap!"

"Care to stop for a snack, Victor?" Alice inquired, glad to have something to take her mind off her problems. "I seem to recall we had a decent bowl of noodles here on a previous adventure."

"I'm – ahem – afraid I had to give most of my money to – _Caroline_?"

Surprised, Alice turned her head. On the opposite side of the street, standing in the gutter and staring blankly into the distance, was a group of children. A pair of men in moth-eaten suits were beside them, one examining them like he would a slab of rump roast while the other presumably extolled their virtues as –  her stomach turned before she could finish the thought. Most of the group were young boys, but there was one girl off to the side – and to Alice's shock, she  _did_ rather resemble their recently-adopted Caroline! Though it was  hard to tell for sure , what with the distance and the heavy layer of grime on her face. . . .

Nanny glared at the men as they  trundled past . “Gonophs and lurkers,” she spat. “Common as cockroaches.” Her expression  softened and saddened . “And those poor tykes are food for perverts – like the blameless ants that wasps consume, or a spider’s feeble prey.”

Victor gulped. “. . .W-wasps eat spiders too,” he said weakly, apparently using his bent for entomological facts to take his mind off what Nanny was implying. “One species will lay its eggs on a still-living spider after dragging it back to its nest, and the larvae devour it once they hatch.”

“Sounds about right for how these prigs treat each other,” Nanny nodded. “And the bobbies don't give a jot if it means they have to lift a finger. It’s a cruel world, no matter how you look at it. Did one of Bumby's stock end up over there?”

"I thought so – it certainly looked like her," Victor said, looking to Alice for confirmation.

Alice took one last glance over her shoulder as the scene receded behind an acupuncture parlor. The resemblance was striking, but. . . . "It couldn't have been," she said, as much to convince herself as her companions. "Dr. Bumby would never allow it."

"Wouldn't have to – I don't doubt people would adopt a small one just to turn around and sell her off," Nanny said in tones of deep disgust.

"Bumby makes them pay for the privilege, though. Surely that would cut into profits enough to discourage things," Alice replied, refusing to phrase the last as a question for fear of not liking the answer. She turned back to Victor. "We might be able to convince the driver to stop, if you'd like another turn at playing the White Knight."

"I wish I c-could," Victor said, coughing again. "I'd gladly break both their noses if I thought myself able. Or offer up my own bid for the children, just to keep them safe." Nanny started to speak, but he waved her silent. "Oh, you don't need to tell me – they'd take whatever I gave, then knock me senseless, steal my wallet, and take the little ones back, wouldn't they? Either that or put a knife in my ribs for interfering." Red anger and green nausea warred for control of his face. "And you know what? I once tried to tell an officer near Houndsditch about one of the workmen on the train station manhandling a woman. He laughed at me! Said that he wasn't about to get involved in a lover's quarrel and that I shouldn't be such a prude. Makes me almost glad Bumby forbade me getting the police involved right away in our search for Alice." He groaned, one hand covering his eyes. "Ugly city filled with ugly people. . .sometimes I think this whole place belongs in Rutledge.”

That seemed as good a lead-in for a change of subject as any, Alice decided. Besides, poor Victor was looking much too depressed for her liking. Not that she thought her current obsession would cheer him much. “Speaking of Rutledge, I know you visited my room there a time or two early on,” she told Nanny, glancing up as another line of scarlet lanterns swayed overhead. “Was it because you hoped to take me home?”

Nanny blinked. "You recall that? I thought for sure you were dead to the world." She shook her head. "I had a thought of it, but mostly I came at Radcliffe’s request – he thought familiar faces might help bring you round. Never worked, of course. . . .” Her peacock feather drooped dangerously low, and she reached up to jam it more firmly into her bun. “He paid me too – for a bit. A woman alone sometimes does what she doesn’t particularly feel like doing. As you know.”

Victor’s mouth fell open. “What?! Alice, t-tell me she doesn’t mean–” he stammered, squeezing his tie in both hands.

“I swear I’ve never been on the street,” Alice immediately assured him, holding up her hands. “She means having to run errands for Dr. Bumby. Though Nurse Witless likes to remind me regularly that I'd be selling my backside without her help. . .she said you’d fallen on hard times right before I left the asylum,” she added to Nanny, a wave of sadness washing over her. "I didn't realize how hard." What a thought – that _Radcliffe_ had been the one to turn her nanny on to the business of debauchery. It had been shocking enough to seek her out after her release and discover the change in title from "Ms" to "Madam." The idea that she'd gone from looking after young ladies to – well, looking after "young ladies" so quickly was truly a disturbing one.

“I’m no drunk like her!” Nanny snapped, glaring as if she knew Alice’s thoughts – and Victor’s too, judging by the slightly pitying expression on his face. “I’m hurting no one! Hooking’s – not a bad life.”

Victor looked at her a moment, then raised a dubious eyebrow in Alice's direction. Alice returned it with a nod. "Oh yes – except for the pimps."

"Most aren't as bad as Splatter," Sharpe insisted. "Hell, if he hadn't come up on me so sudden, maybe–” She broke off with a huff. "Too late now. Just lucky to have my own skin still. Lost everything else."

Alice reached out toward her sympathetically. "I know exactly how that – _Mr. Bunny_!"

The gentle hand she'd intended abruptly became a terrified claw, latching onto Nanny's arm. "Witless said you might have my rabbit! Was it in your room when–” Oh God, had her precious toy been consumed by Splatter's rage? She'd cry herself a fresh pool of tears if it had. The mysterious photograph was nice to have around, but her rabbit – that had been a seventh birthday present from Lizzie. It was a reminder of spring days and silly books and darting down rabbit holes for the very first time. Having it around was as close to being with her family again as she could get. Though it had been a stalwart companion at Rutledge (except when Dr. Wilson was taking it away for "therapeutic reasons," the sod), she'd been rushed out of the asylum without it (and started her time at Houndsditch with a scream when she'd opened her suitcase and found it missing). For months she'd mourned the loss, wondering what had happened to it and if she'd ever see it again. And then Witless had implied someone close to her kept it hidden on their way up to the coups, and while she'd been almost immediately distracted by Wonderland, in the very back of her mind a tiny hope for a reunion had been born. Now, though – "Please, Nanny!"

Nanny jerked back, startled. "Calm down, my girl! Your rabbit ain't been burned up. I haven't seen fur nor stuffing of it since your days in the cell. Far as I know, Radcliffe's the one who's got the damned thing."

"Radcliffe?" Alice echoed. All right, Witless hadn't directly _said_ it was Nanny, but. . . _Radcliffe_?

"Whatever for?" Victor asked, looking as baffled as Alice felt.

“Don’t ask me,” Nanny shrugged. “Not my place to wonder why. Maybe it’s some lawyer thing – part of the estate or some nonsense like that.” She patted Alice's shoulder. “Look, Alice, I can’t give you what I don’t have. I wasn't there the night it all went wrong, and me talking about it never seems to help. Radcliffe wrote the inquest report. I’ll take you to him – we’re headed that way anyhow. Pester _him_ about it all."

Alice sighed. Really, the last thing she wanted to do upon surviving yet another fire was pay a visit to her family’s old solicitor. She and Radcliffe had never quite gotten on. He displayed an amiable enough face to most of the world, but Alice knew him best as the pompous, lazy git spouting things like "women shouldn't strain their minds with chess" and "I hardly think you're in a fit state to handle your own monetary affairs." Still, if bothering him again was her only hope of getting answers (and her rabbit). . . . “All right, but Mr. Radcliffe’s useless,” she muttered.

Nanny huffed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

"All right, folks, this is as far as I go! Kindly bugger off so I can unload."

The cart jerked to a stop in the middle of a little market square, not that dissimilar to the ones in Whitechapel but with some rather better-dressed customers. Past the gate at the far end, one could see a variety of pleasant-looking semi-Gothic buildings, kept clean and in good repair – a violent contrast to Houndsditch's ramshackle lane indeed. _Quite appropriate that this is rather close to Limehouse,_ Alice thought as Nanny squeezed past her and Victor to disembark. _This is our own personal version of East meets West._

As if to underscore the point, one of Nanny’s girls was lurking nearby, doing her best to attract the suits. "Here now, what brings you by this way?" she said as Nanny dropped to the cobbles with a thump. "I ain't due back for a couple hours yet."

"Figured I ought to tell you there ain't no back to go to," Nanny replied, taking a seat on a nearby crate. "Mermaid's nothing more than cinders."

"What?!"

Nanny nodded heavily. “Splatter’s doing. I hope you didn’t have anything important in your room.”

"We're very sorry about it all," Victor added as he got out. Turning to Alice and offering her his hand, he added, “Would you like me to accompany you to Mr. Radcliffe’s? It wouldn’t be any trouble, I a-cah, cah, hrrrk–” He bent over, pounded his chest a few times, then managed to straighten. "– assure you.”

Alice's eyes narrowed. "Oh no, I think it would be plenty of trouble," she said, hopping down. " _You_ are going to see the doctor while I'm busying myself with the arse. You keep coughing on and off, and I don't like it at all."

"You and Madam Sharpe have coughed some too," Victor protested, wiping his forehead.

"Not like you have. I can't speak for Nanny, but I suspect I was too unconscious to swallow down the smoke like you must have." She took him by the arms. "I'm not in a mood to see you suffering just because I am. I still remember how badly you took the worst of the summer smog."

Victor tried to reply, but another cough got in the way. Alice gave him a firm stare. "All right, all right," he capitulated. "I just don't particularly l-like leaving you alone so soon after our reuniting."

"I'm not that fond of it either, but better to be separated for a bit than have to have you carried off to hospital because you collapsed inside Radcliffe's office," Alice replied. "Besides, if I bring you, I wouldn't get two words out before he demanded to know who you are. And then, once I introduced you, the conversation would immediately turn to whether or not you or your parents require a 'solicitor of expertise' or some nonsense like that.He doesn’t usually like clients, but he has a soft spot for those of high profile."

"I wouldn't call a fish cannery high profile. . . ."

"The busiest, most well-known in the country? I would. Believe me, he'd be all over you like a hyena on a bone. It’s best if I see him alone.” She put her hands on her hips, regarding him with a puzzled look. “Though while we're together, I really should ask – what _were_ you doing by the docks anyway?”

“Searching for you,” Victor said, rubbing the back of his head. “You haven’t been back to the Home in almost a week, Alice – not since you left for the chemist. I've been up and down the entire East End trying to follow your trail. Billingsgate was one of my last resorts, in fact, I didn't actually think. . .I was so worried that I would find you t-terribly injured or. . . ." He gulped. "D-d-dead. . . .”

Alice grimaced. Oh, wasn’t this wonderful news. Not only had she been wandering blindly around London while she retrieved limbs from a rodent and fought the souls of lost sailors, probably risking her life dozens of times on the busy streets, she’d made it so Victor got even less sleep than was his wont. She’d thought the dark circles around his eyes looked bigger. “I’m sorry to have caused you so much grief,” she sighed, reaching up to brush his cheek. “If I could stop myself from wandering around in a daze when I drop into Wonderland, I would, believe me. It's not fun for me either. But I’m better now – at least, I’m reasonably certain I’m going to keep my head for a while. And even if I don't, Nanny's going to be here. Isn't that right, Nanny?”

“I'm not having you on, Mr. Stick over there really – huh? Oh, yeah. See no reason to leave right away,” Nanny confirmed, briefly looking up from her conversation. “I can keep an eye on her. Not like I don't have eight years' experience chasin' after her while she's imaginin' things.”

Alice laughed and turned back to Victor. “You see? I’ll be fine for however long this takes. You needn’t worry anymore.”

“All right, if you’re – if you're sure. . . .” Victor pulled his tie free from his waistcoat, unconsciously playing with the scorched fabric. “And I suppose I _should_ report back to Dr. Bumby – it'll be nice to give him some good news for once. What should I tell him?”

Ah yes, that old sinner. Alice wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again. The lecture she'd get would likely rival her father's worst. Another reason to delay her arrival back at Houndsditch. “You can tell him that my head’s screwed on straight for the moment, I’ve gone to see my old family lawyer, and I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. By suppertime at the latest. Someone's got to cook, after all.”

Victor laughed faintly, then took her hand in his. “You promise?” he whispered, gripping it like he feared she’d vanish like spring snow if he let go.

Alice squeezed his fingers, giving him a smile. “Promise. I’ll do my best to avoid getting into any more trouble. And I expect you to do the same,” she added, poking him in the shoulder with her free hand. “No more running into burning buildings.”

“So long as you don’t get stuck in any more,” Victor replied. His tone was light, but the serious look in his eyes told her he was only mostly joking.

“I have no intentions of doing so,” Alice assured him, before tugging him forward into a quick hug. “Though while we’re on the subject, thank you for helping Nanny. And me.”

Victor smiled at her. She hadn’t realized until just this moment how much she’d missed seeing that. “I couldn’t leave you – either of you – alone in there. No matter what Jack Splatter tried to pull. You mean too much to me.”

How had the East End not chewed him up and spit him out already? Maybe getting dragged to the afterlife gave you mystical powers of survival. “It's nice to mean something to someone again," she admitted. "Trust me, I would have done the same for you.”

"I know you would," Victor said, making a motion like he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, but falling shy at the last moment. "We're best friends, right?"

There was that warm fluttery feeling again. Maybe he woke up the butterflies hidden in her flesh. Made as much sense as anything else. "Right." She stepped back and squeezed his hand again. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“All right.” With obvious reluctance, Victor released her and stepped back. “Good luck with Mr. Radcliffe.”

“Thank you,” Alice said. “Good luck with Dr. Bumby – and Dr. Tewsbury, don't forget.”

“I'm going straight to him," Victor promised, clearing his throat. "Stay safe, Alice." With a final nod, he turned and headed back through the gate to Limehouse, fussing with his tie to make it neat again.

Alice watched him disappear past the ancient wooden doors, then turned herself in the direction of Radcliffe’s home on nearby Threadneedle Street. Before she could take a single step, however, Nanny waved at her from atop her crate. “'Cuse me a sec, Darla – Alice! Quick word.”

Puzzled, Alice went over. “Far be it from me to pry into another lady’s business,” Nanny said, leaning forward. “But if you have any sense in that head of yours, you’ll get that boy to marry you.”

Alice’s jaw dropped. Was Sharpe really suggesting – “Nanny!” she snapped, folding her arms. “I am _not_ marrying someone just because he’s rich!”

“Rich? Yeah, sure, it's fantastic that he's the heir to the Van Dort fish empire, ain't no doubt about that, but that's just a bonus!” Nanny shook her head. “Are you completely blind, Alice? Victor’s smitten with you!”

"I saw the way he was lookin' at you," Darla added. "No wonder he never throws a pound our way."

Alice tried desperately to fight down the blush. "We haven't been – indulging, so to speak. He's a perfect gentleman."

"Yeah, well, met too many 'gentlemen' to believe he don't at least think about it."

"It ain't even that," Nanny said. "Fellow crashed right into the Mermaid – laid low _Splatter –_ 'cause he was terrified you were gonna be hurt. Never even gave a thought to himself. I haven’t seen anyone that in love since – well, since your mum and dad, honestly."

Alice opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling with what to say. Going against any opinion that involved her beloved parents felt like a betrayal of her last name. But. . . . “We’re just friends,” she managed at last, dropping her hands to her sides. “That’s all. Friends. We couldn’t be anything more.”

“Friends,” Nanny repeated, and sighed. “Well, you were always good at denying reality. But you keep my advice in mind," she added, waving a sausage-like finger. "Even if you don’t love him back, you can’t ask for a better fate than ending up a rich toff’s much-adored wife.”

“Right,” Alice said, walking away before she let slip just how disgusted that made her feel. Ugh. . .she supposed she couldn’t blame Nanny for trying to steer her toward a life better than either stuck in Houndsditch or selling her backside, but did she have to drag Victor into it? Victor deserved a lot better than anyone from the East End. Even – especially – her.She was lucky enough to have him as a friend – no sense in pushing it. _And if I d_ _id_ _marry him, I’_ _d_ _have to deal with his mother,_ she thought, grimacing. _Even Nanny wouldn’t blame me for wanting to avoid_ that _._

She shook her head, clearing it of the fluff. She wasn’t going to give this matter another thought. There were more important fish to fry. She turned and started off for Radcliffe’s at a jog. _At least with him, I need only fear dull Oriental lectures!_


	11. Of Bobbies, Bumby, And A Broken Spirit

September 14th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

9:07 A.M.

“Well – I suppose we can forget about her being back as soon as she’s able, hmmm?”

Victor shot Dr. Bumby a glare as he stacked up the breakfast dishes. “I’m well aware that something’s gone wrong, _sir_ ,” he said between clenched teeth. “She promised me that she'd be back by suppertime.”

"And you believed her."

"I didn't think anything would–”

“That right there is the crux of the problem,” Dr. Bumby interrupted, scowling. “You _didn't think_! If you'd taken a mere five seconds to consider the issue, you might not have decided it permissible to let her go out wandering by herself again just as soon as you’d found her! _After_ you'd just barely pulled her out of the grip of another fire, no less! ”

“She seemed fine!" Victor shot back, collecting more plates. "Don't you think that if she'd been badly hurt I would have – well, I would have taken her to the hospital, but after that, straight back here! But she wasn't burned, and she was up and walking and coherent – and I believed she’d be safe at her family’s lawyer’s house at any rate. Especially with her nanny nearby to help should something go wrong!” He slammed his stack of china on the table, nailing the doctor with a frustrated snarl. “And I _could_ have gone out and fetched her last night if you’d let me!”

“Let you go wandering around Whitechapel in the dead of night _after_ you’d publicly humiliated Jack Splatter?” Dr. Bumby laughed harshly. “Master Van Dort, you’d have been dead by the first light of dawn.” He picked up a couple of glasses. "Besides, Dr. Tewsbury was quite insistent you stay here in bed. He wasn't pleased at all with you being the one to drag him to our Home after tea."

"Yes, well, _you_ weren't here, and _someone_ had to get help for poor Dennis," Victor retorted. "He could have ended up lame for life thanks to that bottle."

"Yes, fine, true," Dr. Bumby grumbled. "I  _do_ wish the children would take more care when they play in the courtyard.  I've told them before that a crippled child is almost certainly never going to find a home. " With a smirk, he added, "And it's hardly like we can fleague them to make them more palatable to the customers."

"Dr. Bumby!"

"What? I'm just making a joke."

"A very cruel one! It's bad enough that they do that sort of thing to horses – yes, I know what 'fleague' means, I've lived here six months!" he added as Dr. Bumby stared at him in surprise. "And it's horrible to tell children that no one would ever want them if they got hurt!"

"It's simply to ensure they'll be  _careful_ , Master Van Dort," Dr. Bumby said with a long-suffering sigh. "It's a sad truth that most families do not want the cost of taking on a child with – 'special needs,' let's say."

"Still, you could put it kinder than that." Victor grabbed some cutlery, letting out a deep huff as he did. "Where  _were_ you yesterday, anyway? I would have happily told you where  Alic e was and let you fetch her yourself if you'd been around."

"An important meeting with some of the Home's biggest benefactors," Dr. Bumby replied rather vaguely. "Canceling or leaving early would have been unthinkable, I'm afraid. Not that I had any inkling that I should until I came back and promptly received a lecture about making sure the courtyard was clear  of broken glass  and how people suffering from smoke in the lungs  needed rest. "

"I _was_ resting," Victor muttered. "And I was feeling better once teatime came around – fortunately for Dennis. There was no need to confine me to my room like a child.  I can take care of myself.”

“Your being here suggests otherwise,” Dr. Bumby retorted. “The mad always think they know best. Look at Alice, going off chasing useless old toys–”

“That rabbit means the world to her!”

“Which is precisely the problem! How is she supposed to forget her past when she clings so desperately to these remnants of it? All she’s doing is retarding her own progress in her therapy." He peered at Victor over his glasses. "I’d say she’s picked up some bad habits from you, but she's always been a tricky patient.”

_Knock knock!_

Victor's reply died in his throat. That had sounded like it came from the front door. . .He and Bumby stared at each other as the rapping repeated itself. Then Victor spun around and rushed to the foyer, leaving his wobbly pile of plates behind. _Oh please oh please oh please –_ “Alice?” he cried, yanking open the door.

It was indeed his wayward friend – accompanied by a policeman. "G'morning, sir," he said, tipping his hat in Victor's direction.

Victor blinked, doing his best to process this unexpected turn of events. _Oh dear. What’s wrong now?_ “Er – h-hello, officer,” he said, touching the knot of his tie. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem – just got someone here who I believe belongs to Dr. Bumby,” the policeman said, clapping a callused hand on Alice's shoulder.

Alice pulled away and glared at him, though her hard gaze was tinged with embarrassment. “I don’t _belong_ to anybody,” she muttered, hugging herself. "I'm not a dolly."

“Well, you’re in his care. Close enough for us.”

Footsteps behind Victor signaled Dr. Bumby's joining the little party. “Well now, what’s this?” he asked, face severe as he looked between his charge and the lawman. “Have you gotten yourself into trouble, Alice?”

“There’s no charges, Doctor, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the policeman assured him as Alice took a special interest in her feet. “Alice and Mr. Radcliffe just had a bit of a disagreement.”

“What happened?” Victor asked, directing the question at Alice.

“He accused me of setting the fire!” Alice burst out, face ablaze with fury. “And he wouldn’t give me either my rabbit _or_ the inquest report!”

“Chris and I were passing through Threadneedle after our morning coffee when Radcliffe comes barrelin' out of his house, black all over his front, yelling for help,” the policeman said, looking more amused than anything. “Grabbed us as soon as he saw us, babblin' on about 'that mad Liddell child' havin' a ‘psychotic episode’ in his office and needing some restraints. Chris went up to see what was what and found Alice rifling through the man’s desk. Soon as she saw him, she bolted through the window. Girl can run when she wants to – led us on a merry chase over all those rooftops, didn’t you Alice?” he asked her with a grin.

“I panicked,” Alice admitted, eyes fixed back on her shoes. “My first thought was that I was about to be dragged back to the asylum. Can you blame me?”

“Course not – if I ever met someone who _didn’t_ run, I’d ask what was wrong with them,” the policeman chuckled. “Anyway, we ran around for a while like chickens with our heads cut off, with her sneakin' along every ledge and gutter she could find, but eventually we caught up to her on some old couple's roof. She tried to dash across the old scrap bridge between that and the next flat, but – well, don't call 'em 'scrap' bridges for nothing.”

“It collapsed almost the moment I set foot on it,” Alice explained, shuddering. “I had to grab onto Constable Hightopp here to avoid meeting a rather messy fate in the alley below.”

Sheer perversity caused Victor's mind to instantly picture the scene. Alice racing across the rickety planks in a frenzy of terror. . .the wood giving way with a snap like a gunshot beneath her buckled shoes. . .her hanging suspended in mid-air for a timeless fraction of a second. . .then tumbling at last to the rocky cobbles, screaming all the way. . . . He gulped and wiped his forehead. His stomach really wasn't designed for all these somersaults. “You’re a-all right, though?”

“I’m not a pancake, so yes, quite all right,” Alice assured him.

“Yeah, well, Radcliffe said he didn’t want to press charges, but he thought an hour or two in the cells might do her good,” Constable Hightopp continued. “And there's been plenty of other people coming in to report her makin' a nuisance of herself, so we thought we ought to take her down to the station and ask her what she’s been up to. Only meant to keep her til teatime or so, just a bit of 'scare 'er straight,' but. . . .”

“But what?” Dr. Bumby asked, lowering his brow.

“Well, we brought her down to the cells at the same time as some of the others were bringing in Jack Splatter for torching the Mermaid and burying a cleaver in Long Tim Hargrove.”

“You caught him? He's bragged before how he's too slippery for you,” Victor said, wrinkling his nose as he recalled a brief volley they'd had not long before Alice had lost herself in Wonderland.

"Hard to slip when you ain't exactly thinkin' straight," Constable Hightopp replied, chuckling. "Apparently some swell managed to nail him right in the gabber! Left him pretty loopy for a while."

A vindictive grin spread across Victor's face. "Really." It wasn’t usually in his nature to indulge in _schadenfreude_ , but it did his heart good to think of that filth Splatter rotting in gaol. And all because _he’d_ managed to send the pimp off to dreamland! _This is getting filed right next to sticking Barkis three times before he ever touched me in the memory banks._

“Yeah, he was in a right mood," Constable Hightopp continued. "Kept going on and on about how he was gonna take the fu – er, the _toff's_ head off next time he saw him.” Victor's smile faded. “I say if someone like that could lay a finger on him, he's losin' his touch. Anyway, the minute he saw Alice, he tried to blame the lot on her.”

“He _what_?!” As if he didn’t like Jack Splatter enough!

Hightopp laughed. “Oh, she didn’t take it lying down. Started calling him cur, leech, maggot – a fantastic line of inquiry, if I do say so.” Alice smirked proudly.

“As fascinating as this is, it doesn’t explain why she’s coming home a day late,” Dr. Bumby said, staring down the officer.

“Well, the thing is, sir, right as she was buildin' up a good head of steam, she, uh, keeled over,” Hightopp explained, taking off his battered top hat and turning it in his hands. “I don’t know if she hit her head or the excitement got to her, but she was out like a light. I didn’t feel right sending her back in that state, so we kept her overnight to make sure she wasn’t sick or nothing. Woke up this morning like nothing had happened, so here she is.”

Victor stared at Hightopp, surprised. _He – he actually cared enough about her to keep an eye on her?_ he thought, tilting his head. _To make sure she was truly well enough to make the trip? I would have never guessed, after seeing the behavior of some of his compatriots. . . ._ A hesitant smile appeared on his  face. _But that's very kind of him._ _Maybe I’ve misjudged_ _some of_ _those on the local force a bit._

Judging by his tight-lipped scowl, Dr. Bumby didn’t agree. “And you didn’t even think to summon me?” he growled. “I believe that a young woman suffering a mild psychotic episode in your gaol is sufficient reason to call in a professional. Do you know the untold damage you might have just done to her psyche?”

“Dr. Bumby, with all due respect, how would they be able to tell?” Alice joked, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

Bumby’s response was to grab her arm and yank her inside. “I’ll deal with you later,” he snapped. “As for you, officer – what’s your name again?”

“Constable Harry Hightopp,” the policeman said, frowning as he replaced his hat. “And I don’t know about what you just said – we just wanted to make sure she was herself before we sent her home.”

“Treating her when she’s not herself is my entire _job_ , Constable!”

Victor looked at the pair squaring off for battle and decided he'd had enough of shouting matches for one day. He offered Alice his hand. "Shall we leave them to it?"

"Please," Alice said, taking it with a grateful smile. They hurried off to the relative safety of her room. "So, how did your trip to the doctor's go?" she added pointedly as Victor closed the door.

"He looked me over and listened to my lungs – said I'd be fine so long as I didn't exert myself overmuch the rest of the day," Victor told her. "Of course, I ended up having to ignore his advice when Dennis fell on a broken bottle during hopscotch in the square."

"Oh no! Lousy lushes," Alice grumbled, folding her arms. "How is he?"

"Sporting a fresh set of stitches up one leg, but he'll recover fully – not that he isn't milking his limp for all its worth right now. But it led to Dr. Bumby and Dr. Tewsbury collaborating to lock me in my room for the rest of the day," Victor sighed. "Otherwise I would have been out looking for you again." He gave his friend a worried once-over. “How are _you_ feeling this morning?”

“Fine – or, well, as fine as I get these days,” Alice amended, rocking on her heels. “Better than I was last night, I suppose. I’m not sure why I fainted myself. One moment, I was screaming at Splatter with the full unrighteous fury of the Queen of Hearts; the next, I was waking up to the stench of stale urine and old blood behind bars.”

Victor bit back a wave of nausea. “Hope Splatter’s enjoying that scent. . . . So what happened with Mr. Radcliffe? Did you really send him screaming out of his house?”

“Yes, though I didn’t mean to,” Alice said, glaring at a picture of the Tweedle twins mounted on her wall. “He just made me so angry. . .I told him I knew he had my rabbit and that I wanted it back, and he refused to give it to me. Said that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to have such an ‘inflammatory object.’ We snapped at each other about it for a while, then I demanded he at least tell me everything he knew about the fire. He complained that that was all I ever wanted to talk about – how shocking that I’d want to discuss such matters with the man who settled our estate and even identified my family since I wasn’t able to – then regurgitated that story about Dinah knocking over the lamp. I told him I knew that wasn’t true, and to my shock he agreed with me. For one blissful moment, I thought that, maybe, he was secretly on my side – then he asked me if I liked to play with matches as a girl.” She let out a deep, heavy sigh. “I admit, after that I lost my head. Tried to snatch his papers from his desk, threatened to knock him senseless with one of his precious Ming vases, swore I'd see him bleed like the fat pig he is. . . . He retreated after I threw an inkwell at him. I figured I’d search his study for the inquest report and my rabbit before slipping out the back, but then Hightopp’s partner showed up, and. . . .” Her cheeks flushed red. “I know I shouldn’t have run, but they’ve teased me before about bringing me in ‘just for being off my nut.’ I didn’t want to risk it." She rubbed her arm with a little sigh. "Not that it did me much good in the end.”

"No, but at least you didn't end up wandering the streets in another fog," Victor said, trying to be positive. “I can’t say I blame you much for panicking – I probably would have done the same. And while I can't _quite_ condone you throwing ink at people, if only because it's a waste of good drawing supplies– ” Alice let out a soft giggle "–I will defend your right to berate Radcliffe to the ends of the earth." He scowled, shaking his head. "What a thing to accuse you of! Does he seriously believe you started the fire?”

All humor abruptly left Alice's face, leaving it to crumple into misery. “Well. . .maybe I did,” she whispered.

Victor blinked. “What?” Hadn't she just drenched Radcliffe in India's best for such an accusation? Why echo his words now?

“I – I’ve been collecting memories lately, in Wonderland," Alice explained, keeping her gaze fixed on a sketch of the White Rabbit. "Literally, in fact – the world's shaped them into solid form and scattered them about the landscape for me to find. Most have been simple things – little crystal houses and bottles and butterflies, which, when broken, provide a brief window into the past. But – but there's also been two others, in the guise of our front door, blanketed inside with flame. Those I have to pass through, straight back into the night of the fire."

"Oh, Alice–"

"Let me finish, please," Alice said, holding up a hand. "The first one is barely worth mentioning – a completely unnecessary reminder that our library was a firetrap thanks to all of Papa’s books and paper and photography equipment. Any fool could have told you that. My own _mother_ remarked on it as a joke. But the second. . . .” She pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes as her voice grew watery. “The night it all happened, I was the last one out of the library. I'd been reading with Dinah, and – and the log I left on the fire – I don’t know if it was really dead–”

Victor took her tenderly by the shoulders, turning her toward him. “Alice. It was an _accident_ ,” he told her in the firmest tones he could muster. “You did _not_ kill your family.”

She finally turned her eyes to his again, bright green dulled with grief. “How can you be so certain?" she demanded. "You weren’t there. You can’t tell me if that log was dead or not.”

“No, I can’t,” Victor admitted. “But I can tell you that I know you would have checked. I know you, Alice. You would have never done anything to deliberately hurt your family. I don't give a damn what the children, or Radcliffe, or the _Illustrated_ , or anyone else might say about it. Whatever happened, it was _not your fault._ ” He brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Please, Alice – don’t let the Jabberwock win _after_ he’s died.”

That got a smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him into a hug. “Maybe I _should_ have taken you to Radcliffe’s, cough or not.”

Victor wrapped his arms around her. “I told you I would have been happy to come. Though you're probably right that I did need my rest. . .still, I do hope you know I'm always going to be on your side."

“I do,” she assured her. "And I'm beyond grateful for it." She pulled away, eyes light again and her usual smirk back in place. “Funny you should mention the Jabberwock, incidentally – I ran across his skeleton in the Vale of Tears earlier. Such a relief to know he’s dead and gone for good, especially since my mind has recently enjoyed sticking his face everywhere.”

“Right, you said – well, hopefully that spells the end of that particular hallucination.” Victor tilted his head, curiosity filling him. “Alice, what _has_ been going on in your mind? I've gotten a few reports from people who have run into you, but – it's all very hard to understand. Someone said something about Dormy trying to boil you – I thought you were friends? And who exactly is this 'Carpenter' you mistook me for? I don’t think you’ve told me about him yet.”

“I don’t think he was a person before – just a figure in the Tweedles’ favorite poem,” Alice replied, shaking her head. “And I bet the inhabitants of the Deluded Depths would have preferred that he and his Walrus companion had remained that way.”

“The Deluded Depths?” Victor repeated, even more intrigued.

Alice nodded, grinning and pushing him down to sit on her bed. “Filled with fish even you might like – and plenty of things I’m sure you wouldn’t. But let me start at the beginning, with me following yet another white furry creature down a dark hole. . . .”

Victor listened raptly as Alice recounted her recent adventures to him. It was an amazing, violent, nonsensical tale, filled with things like giant floating factories devoted to the production of rivers of tea and staffed by flocks of half-mechanized dodos, a vast expanse of icy sea blanketed by a glowing aurora and patrolled by a vicious new breed of snark, and an underwater city built from shipwrecks and populated by fish wearing their Sunday best. Alice’s way with words was amazing as always – at times, Victor could swear he could feel the floor shake from the constant pounding of Pressing Up & Cranking Down, or see the antenna of a hidden Ice Snark poking up from just behind the wardrobe. Of course, the pure strangeness of it all meant that he had to interrupt from time to time with a puzzled question or comment: 

“Wait, the Duchess gave you a weapon? Didn't she try to slaughter and dress you for dinner last time you met?"

"Apparently I've destroyed her taste for mad women – she satisfies her cravings with pork now. Has me scouting out pig snouts for her while I'm on my travels. The rewards are nice, but honestly, having her so friendly now is a bit creepy. I almost preferred her as a foe!"

“How many different memories are there again? I'm losing track. I know houses are your family, and the glasses Bumby. . . .”

"Right, and then there's a bottle of gin for Nurse Witless, a peacock feather for Nanny, a syringe for Dr. Wilson – very happy _those_ don't appear often – a pen for Mr. Radcliffe, and – well, a butterfly for you!"

"Me? Alice, you've known me half a year. I didn't think Wonderland would bother."

"Well, it's not like I don't miss you when we're apart." (Which forced Victor to try and hide a blush.)

"So – you jump on a blue-capped mushroom, and the world just – changes. Rebuilds itself completely."

"Right."

"And it's always to put you atop a slide."

"So far."

"So – I should have just spent my days in Hyde Park and waited for you to show up for a trip around their famous playground?"

"Oh, stop it. . .though maybe you should have. Damn, you know how long I've been waiting for a chance to go on that slide properly?"

"You may have mentioned. . . ."

“Eye fish. Alice, that’s weird even for _you_.” 

"I haven't even told you about the anchor fish yet! Or the turtle chest I saw swimming in the distance once. Or the Cannon Crabs. Or the Oyster Starlets!"

"Oh for – I am officially declaring the Deluded Depths the strangest realm you've created for Wonderland yet."

Still, even if everything she said didn’t settle completely comfortably into his mind, it was a pleasure to listen to the story – and to understand, at least in part, what had prompted her sudden disappearance from the Home. Alice's body might have been stumbling around the streets of London without plan or purpose, but her mind had been extraordinarily busy indeed. She'd battled her way across dangerous landscapes, confronting monsters galore, all in the pursuit of rooting out a fresh corruption infecting her mind. Everything seemed to center around the discovery of a new sort of enemy she called the Ruin, now spreading across Wonderland courtesy of a terrifying train constructed by the March Hare and the Dormouse. “Though I’m not entirely sure they meant to build what they did,” Alice admitted. “They may not have ever been the sanest or nicest of creatures, but I can't see them attempting to destroy their own home. There’s only one Wonderlander who’s ever tried that, and last I knew, she was very, _very_ dead.”

Victor’s gaze flicked toward the crude doodle of a hedge maze marked with lopsided hearts tacked up nearby. “The dead don't always stay quietly in their graves, though," he remarked softly. "Do you think she’s behind this – Infernal Train?”

“No, I don't, actually,” Alice said, rocking on her heels as she examined a sketch of Card Guards being messily dismembered. “The Ruins – they're disgusting piles of slop, but they're not really her style. She prefers armies based on games, if she can get them. Surely I didn't kill every Card Guard and Crimson Chessman under her command.” She shook her head and plopped onto the bed next to him. “Honestly, after fighting so many various forms of the wretched goop, I've come to believe they're not from _any_ place in Wonderland. They’re more like gooey parasites that have burrowed into my mind.”

“Like ticks or lice?”

“Yes, exactly. Only they're after my sanity instead of my blood. Or along with my blood, considering how nasty they are.” She shuddered. “That Colossal Ruin ripping itself from the ground, all dripping faces and jagged metal and boiling ooze – that's going to haunt my nightmares for weeks to come. Mostly because I know the next time I meet one, it’s not going to run away once I’ve sufficiently wounded it.”

Victor nodded, shivering. And he'd thought having his mother's voice occasionally shout at him inside his skull was bad. Poor Alice. “I wish you all the best in fighting them,” he told her, putting a friendly hand on her shoulder. “And I hope you can get this infection cleared–”

“Alice!”

The pair started, heads jerking toward the door. Dr. Bumby was standing there like the herald of some cruel god, arms folded, lips thin, eyes hidden behind the cold white discs of his glasses. “My office. _Now_ ,” he growled. Turning his glare on Victor, he added, “And I’m sure _you_ can do something much more useful with your time than strengthen the memory of her hallucinations!”

“Dr. Bumby, we were just–” Alice started

“Just allowing yourself to sink back into unproductive thoughts and emotions! One would think you didn't _want_ to get better!  I can only imagine what horrors gaol has inflicted on your psyche!” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet. “ _Upstairs_!”

“All right, all right! You don’t need to drag me!” Alice snapped, yanking herself free of his grip. “I’ve got legs, you know.” She shot Victor an apologetic look. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Right.” Victor sighed as doctor and patient vanished out the door, still sniping at each other. Oh lovely. Apparently Bumby's little tiff with Officer Hightopp hadn't gone well. He hadn't seen the psychiatrist in this foul a mood since the day he and Alice had danced in the front foyer. Alice was going to catch hell in that office, that was for sure. _And here I thought her return was going to be a happy occasion,_ he thought, rising from his seat and idly running his fingers over one of Alice's sketches. _Why does he have to ruin everything with his bad temper?_ He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. _Don’t be too hard on her, Dr. Bumby._ You’re _the one who refuses to treat those hallucinations_ _properly_ _, after all!_

***

It was suppertime before Victor saw Alice again – after her session with Dr. Bumby, she'd hidden herself in her room, leaving the doctor and Victor to pick up the chores. The children had kept Victor busy enough that there was little chance to slip away, and the one time he had tried knocking on her door, Bumby had appeared and promptly shoved a broom in his hand, directing him to the front step on pain of refusing him access to the piano for a fortnight. It was a tense, unpleasant sort of day, not at all helped by the worry churning in his gut over his friend's potential state.

Alice finally emerged from her self-imposed exile to throw together the meal Dr. Bumby had ordered for dinner. Victor, taking his usual place between Reggie and Abigail, watched her serve with concerned eyes. She was deeply subdued, dropping food onto each plate without even a glance at the owner. "Alice, what–" he tried as she came around to him.

The leathery hunk of meat hit his dish, and she swept past him to deliver Reggie his share. "Mealtime is for eating, not for talking," Dr. Bumby growled thunderously. "If you want to engage in frivolous conversation, you can do it on your own time."

Victor took the hint and kept his mouth shut as Alice came back around with the vegetables. The children too picked up on the danger signs, and devoted themselves to finishing off their food as fast as possible to escape the storm lingering around their keeper. Alice herself merely picked at her meal, and Dr. Bumby practically attacked his slab of overcooked beef, sawing away with his knife like he had a personal vendetta against the cow. Victor managed to choke down his portion, though it sat in his stomach like a stone. It was a dinner as silent as the grave – or, in Victor’s more informed opinion, as silent as the grave would never be.

After everyone was finished, Alice hastily gathered up the dishes, still refusing to meet anyone's eye, and disappeared toward the kitchen. The children scattered, Bumby stomping off behind. Victor waited to make sure he wasn't about to receive a barked order to follow (not that he would have obeyed if he had), then hurried after Alice.

She was standing over the sink, arms almost elbow-deep in the soapy water and hair hanging around her face like a widow's heavy veil. Victor lingered at the bottom of the stairs as she scrubbed, unsure if he was doing the right thing. Alice typically preferred to be alone when she was upset – rather like himself – but he had to know if there was anything he could to do to help. “Are – are you all right?” he finally asked, tensed to flee should she tell him to bugger off.

There was a long pause. “He told me he might send me back to Rutledge,” she whispered at last, setting a plate aside to dry.

Victor’s entire body went cold. “He what?"

Alice turned around, revealing eyes rimmed all round with red. “He said that he’d hoped I was strong enough to not give the hallucinations any footholds. That he'd trusted me to be able to tell what was real and what wasn’t,” she said, voice shaking. “And that he was extremely disappointed in me for letting my mind and body wander off like that. I t-tried to explain that it wasn't like I'd _wanted_ that to happen, that I would have fought it if I could, but he cut me off and said that if I was going to be a danger to myself and others, m-maybe it would be b-better if I were back in a. . .a. . . .” She bit down on her lower lip as it started to wobble, tears shining in her eyes. “And that he wasn’t afraid to say I should be c-committed again if – if he really thought–”

Her voice cracked, and she covered her face with a soapy arm. Victor darted forward and swept her into an embrace. “Oh, God, Alice. . . .”

“I’m not going back!” she shouted abruptly, shrill and broken. “Not to that hell! Not _ever_! I won’t, I simply _won’t_!” She grabbed him in a death grip, burying her face in his chest. “I want to be well again! I want to know what’s real!”

At a loss for words, Victor simply rubbed her back for a few moments, letting her sob into his jacket. He felt rather out of his depth here. He’d comforted Alice during bad moments before, but this. . . . “I’m real,” he finally said, for lack of anything better.

“I know you are.” Alice sighed. “Why the hell do you care so much about a madwoman?”

“Because you’re the smartest, funniest, kindest woman I’ve ever met,” Victor said, leaning his cheek against the top of her head as he gently rocked them. “And the bravest.”

"I cannot measure up so well to a viscount's daughter and a – dead woman." Alice paused. "That doesn't sound quite right when you say it aloud, does it?"

Victor chuckled weakly. "Not really. . .but you do. I won't say you're as enthusiastic as Emily, or as sweet as Victoria, but you've a special charm all your own."

"Madness is a special charm now?"

"No, being a storyteller so fantastic I can practically see your Wonderland at times is. Along with a sharp wit and a well-read mind. . .and a beautiful imagination." He pulled back just enough to reach down and tilt her head up to look her in the eyes. “Bumby and all the rest of them – I don't care what they say. I know you can beat this. You're stronger than this madness.” He offered up a smile – shaky and nervous, but a smile all the same. “Although, by all accounts, I’m off my rocker too, so. . . .”

To his immense relief, that got a laugh. “Right, I’d nearly forgotten,” she nodded. “The one who keeps going on about walking corpses who have better lives than most living people. You’re crazier than I am.” She squeezed his middle. “It’s the two of us against the world, isn’t it?”

“If that’s the way you’d like it,” Victor said, drawing her close again. “I just – I wish I could help you more.”

“You do more than anyone else does,” Alice replied, pressing her ear against his chest. “You know how often I'd wished you were in Wonderland with me? I would have loved to have shown you the Vale of Tears at its best, or Tundraful's glowing sky.” She sighed again. "You'll have to draw me some more pictures."

“You are a most prolific muse, I assure you,” Victor grinned, before drawing a few more soothing circles on her back. “But really. Anything I can do to help – all you need to do is ask.”

“Thank you.” Alice pulled free of his arms, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Ugh – that was quite the production. . .and damn it, I've gotten you all wet, I'm sorry."

"I've suffered much worse things than being wet," Victor told her, though he had to admit that the splotches on his back were getting a bit cold. "Do you want me to take over the dishes while you get yourself put together?"

"No, it'll be better if I have something to keep me busy," Alice said, waving a hand and splattering soap across the floor. "Besides, if Bumby gets an inkling I've been slacking, I'll get another lecture, and I am quite done with those for today." She frowned. “For me _or_ you – you’d best make yourself scarce before he discovers you here and accuses you of driving me closer to insanity again.”

“I suppose,” Victor agreed, sighing. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of leaving her alone now. It seemed to him that she needed someone around to help keep the darkness at bay. But she was right about Dr. Bumby, unfortunately. If the walking storm caught them – well, Victor guessed he’d rather be struck by _real_ lightning. “You’ll be all right?”

“I’ll try,” Alice said, going back to the dishes. “At any rate, I’m going to do my absolute best to ignore any Wonderland visitors from now on. Dr. Bumby has a point – I really can’t keep letting my brain flutter off to other worlds while the rest of me wanders about unchecked." Her shoulders stiffened. "I dread to think what I did while I was not all there. . . .” 

"I don't think you hurt anyone," Victor rushed to say. "You – broke a few things in a tea shop, but other than that I'm pretty sure you were merely an annoyance."

The tension drained. "Good. People expect me to be an annoyance." She shook her head with a scowl. “If Wonderland wants to trouble me while I’m sleeping, fine. Regular dreams I can handle. But no more of these mental 'holidays,' though that's not really the right word at all. The waking world is for London only.”

Victor nodded, pushing down a faint flicker of disappointment that he wouldn’t be getting any more stories of her dreamland anytime soon. “Right. I’ll help keep you grounded best I can.”

“Thank you. And Victor?” She glanced back at him, smiling. “Feel free to scold any more Boojums who try to pop up.”

Victor laughed. “You have my word.”

Alice nodded and resumed her task. Victor left her to it, heart a little lighter. _This has been the most trying week of my life, by far,_ he thought as he mounted the stairs. _But hopefully, the worst is over now. Bumby's likely to still be snippy for the next few days, and I doubt Wonderland will leave Alice be without a fight. . .b_ _ut maybe, just maybe, things c_ _an_ _start getting back to normal._

"Viiiictoooor! Ollie just ate one of our playing cards!"

_. . .As normal as it gets around here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice's little off-screen escapade with the police is actually a nod to some of the action seen in the beta trailer for Alice: Madness Returns. In that, the bridge collapsing beneath her was actually how she ended up tumbling into Wonderland. And yes, Harry's last name is a nod to Tim Burton's Alice In Wonderland -- it's the last name of his Mad Hatter.
> 
> "Fleague" is a reference to the Discworld novel "Night Watch," where it used in the expression "fleague a jade" -- get a broken-down horse up and bouncing for buyers. Let's just say it involves hot ginger and leave it at that.


	12. Not Quite Getting Back To Normal

September 16th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

3:59 P.M.

_What on earth are they_ doing _in there?_

Victor wrung his hands together as he paced the hall in front of Bumby's office. _It's been almost an hour longer than one of her usual sessions,_ he thought, glancing at the closed door. _What’s going on between them?_ _Yes, all right, she's been gone for a week in Wonderland, but – do they have to be so_ quiet _?_ He took a step closer to the door, then shook his head and pulled back. _No, Victor, don't start eavesdropping. You don't want to turn into one of Madam Sharpe's lurkers._ _Not to mention the trouble I’d be in if I got caught. Although. . .is it really any worse than wearing a groove in the floorboards_ _out here_ _? Maybe I’m already a lurker. Perhaps I should go find something else to do._ _._ _._ _teatime's coming up, and we could all probably use a cup. . . ._ He looked down the hallway, then resumed his pacing with a sigh. _Oh, we all know I wouldn't be able to concentrate. I'd probably burn myself on the kettle and make more trouble for everyone._ _Better to stay out here, even if it does make me a creeper._ He worried his lip with his teeth. _I hope she hasn’t had another episode – though I’m pretty sure I would have heard_ that _regardless of where I was. Oh dear, I just want to stop worrying about her for five seconds_ _!_

Finally, just as he was wondering if he shouldn’t give in to the burgeoning madness and start literally climbing the walls, the door at last opened. Victor jerked to a stop as Alice stepped out. His friend looked – rather confused, to be honest. Eyes clear and focused, which was a good sign, but her mouth was pulled down in a puzzled frown, and she kept playing with a loose thread on her apron. "We'll try again tomorrow, all right?" Dr. Bumby's voice called after her.

"Yes, Doctor," Alice replied, before noticing Victor. "Oh, hello. Playing guard?"

"I suppose. . .I'm sorry, I just – you know how I am," he said, twisting his fingers into knots. "How’d it go in there?”

Alice closed the door, twirling the thread around her finger. “Odd," she replied, staring at the wallpaper. "Wonderland wouldn’t let me in.”

Victor blinked. _That_ wasn't something he'd expected to hear.  “Beg pardon?”

“Dr. Bumby put me under – though it took longer than usual this time; I kept getting distracted by thoughts of ‘I’ve seen this key of his before, I know I have,’ bloody brain – and we did the usual ‘go to Wonderland’ ‘I don’t really want to’ ‘go anyway’ business," Alice elaborated. "But once we were past that bit – well, typically, I'm suddenly in the barren wastes of the Land of Fire and Brimstone, or the fleshy underbelly of Queensland. You know, the usual horrors my imagination loves to inflict upon me. But today – nothing. No matter how much Dr. Bumby prodded, no matter how I tried – and I actually _tried_ this time – Wonderland refused to pop up. I spent most of my session standing in a sea of featureless black, unable to find my way at all.”

“F-featureless black?” Cold slithered down Victor’s spine as a certain memory suddenly thrust itself back into his consciousness: _“Just you, me, and the darkness. . .nothing more, nothing less. . . . You don’t like that? Why not? . . .Ah. Childish nightmares are some of the things we’re working on_ rejecting _, Master Van Dort. Darkness always has its place. The golden mean is the ideal of life, and that means balancing light_ and _dark. . . . Well then, why don’t you let me prove it to you? Tell me more about that dream of yours. . . .” And then – blackness and voices_ _smothering and tearing_ _and oh dear God make it stop –_

The touch of fingers on his wrist nearly made him leap out of his skin. "Hey!" Alice said, eyes large with worry. "Don't you start going a million miles away now. We need you here."

"Sorry, I'm – I'm sorry," Victor mumbled, covering his face with his hand. Damn it, he thought he'd gotten over that session months ago. Why did he have to be so bloody afraid of that stupid dream? "I don't know why – you said that, and it just all suddenly came back and–"

"Ran you over like a Hansom cab?" Alice put in. Victor nodded. "Trust me, I understand. It wasn't until the end of my stay in Rutledge that I stopped retreating from the world whenever I heard the word 'fire.' Honestly, half the time I still feel like doing so." She traced circles over his veins with her thumb. "I could have put that better, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Victor told her, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "You shouldn't worry about me."

"If you're going to work yourself into a tizzy over my mental health, I'll return the favor, thank you very much," Alice said, lifting her nose into the air in such a way Victor couldn't help but laugh. "But anyway – given what’s transpired over the last week, it’s rather peculiar, isn’t it? Every domain in Wonderland is being threatened with complete annihilation – you’d think it would want me to hurry back as fast as I can. I’m surprised it’s let me be lucid for this long. I barely lasted five minutes between Hatter's Domain and the Deluded Depths.” She looked back at the office door. “Dr. Bumby’s just as confused. I asked him what it meant that I couldn’t find my way back in, and he actually said he didn’t know.”

“Really?” This _was_ serious. If there was any phrase Dr. Bumby hated, it was “I don’t know.” The good doctor liked to have an answer for everything. For him to actually confess to ignorance. . . . “It is a puzzle, though,” Victor commented. “Wonderland keeps you captive for about a week, allowing only the smallest glimpse of reality while you travel between realms – and then, after all that, when you actually _want_ to return, it shuts and locks all the doors? ”

Alice shrugged. “Don’t ask me to make sense of the place. Every time I try, I just end up with a headache. Usually because something's grabbed me and is chewing on it.”

Was it wrong to smile at that? Alice herself was smirking, so Victor guessed not. “Well, you did say last night you were determined to stay in the real world while awake – maybe it’s actually obeying you for a change,” he suggested. “I mean, it is your head. It ought to listen to you on occasion.”

“It should, but I doubt that’s the reason,” Alice sighed. “I think it’s more likely it only lets me in on its own terms. My first two visits, I just happened to stumble upon the right path into the world. And both the asylum trip and this last one were forced upon me.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess if Wonderland’s not dragging me in by my ear, it doesn’t want me around at all.”

“Hmph. You need an internal world that has more manners, Alice.”

“Don’t I know it.” Alice’s lips quirked up slightly. “Still, we have to consider the fact that this probably means no hallucinations or wandering off in a daze either. I doubt you want to go chasing me all over Whitechapel again.”

“Hardly,” Victor allowed, grimacing as he thought about pounding the pavement with his stomach knotted and feet aching. He patted her shoulder. “If we're lucky, this is actually a sign you're starting to improve again.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Counting chickens before they’ve hatched prevents one from making some decent omelets.”

“Perhaps – but someone’s got to have hope around here, and it may as well be me,” Victor declared, straightening up and doing his best to look serious and determined.

Alice giggled. “Well, thank you. Takes the burden off me.” She tilted her head and squinted at him. “Though, speaking of possibly seeing things – is it just me, or has your hair gotten longer?”

“Probably,” Victor confessed, feeling the back of his head. “I haven’t had a trim since I came here.” He gave her a half-smile. “As you might imagine, I’m reluctant to let anyone around Whitechapel near me with anything sharp.”

“Wise move,” Alice assured him, grinning. “But if you’re willing to trust me, I can probably snip off an inch or two for you.”

Something inside Victor whispered, _What if she has an episode and thinks the scissors are her Vorpal Blade? Do you want to end up like old Mr. Clipper in the Land of the Dead?_

_Weren't we just discussing how Wonderland's mysteriously leaving her alone for the time being?_ Victor shot back, annoyed that such a thing would be his first thought. Looking at her smiling face revealed no signs of instability. Just friendliness – and, maybe, deep in her eyes, a desperate desire _to_ be trusted. _Even if she_ _said she wouldn't take offense if I declined,_ _it might deal a blow to our friendship. Besides, it’s just a trim._

_Oh, like letting her go to Radcliffe’s was ‘just a visit?’_ his internal voice snarked.

_Be fair – the problem there didn’t stem from her going mad, now did it? Besides, my only other option_ _s are the shop around the corner, which I know charges twice as much as it should,_ _or_ _that Barker fellow on Fleet Street,_ _who's nice enough, but_ _– well, scissors in the head might be preferable to listening to him prattle on about how perfect his wife and daughter are._ “I’d be much obliged, thank you.”

September 26th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

3:21 P.M.

“Hey! Postman’s here!”

“What – oh! I’m coming!” Victor called back, setting down his quill. Leaving his sketch of an interesting knothole he'd found in his linen press on the bed, he hurried into the front foyer to find Elsie accepting a letter from the man in blue. “What have we got?” he asked, crouching down beside her as she closed the door.

Elsie glanced at the envelope, then smirked at him. “Somebody’s gonna have to take pills,” she sing-songed, waving it before him.

“What?” Victor made a grab for the letter. "Elsie, let me see!"

Elsie hopped backward. "Oh, no, no, it's for Doctor!" she said with mock indignation. "I should go give this to him right away!"

Victor's stomach abruptly did a cartwheel across his abdomen. "Oh no – it's my parents, isn't it?"

Elsie frowned. "Aww, you weren't supposed to guess!" She thrust the letter into his chest. "No fun now – you might as well read it."

"Thank you – I think," Victor said, taking the crumpled envelope and examining the front. His mother’s familiar hand stared back at him, neatly addressing the letter inside to one Dr. Angus Bumby. Victor swallowed a sudden anxious lump in his throat. With all the excitement over Alice's disappearance, he'd completely forgotten about the psychiatrist's threat of "radical treatments" for his own supposed delusions. Now the dread was back, sitting like a stone on his chest. Flipping the letter over, he stared at the seal, wondering if he dared break it. _It is technically about me. . .but then again, do I even want to know what they’ve said?_

“Victor? Is that the post?”

Victor’s head snapped up to see Dr. Bumby peering over his shoulder. How on earth did this man keep sneaking up on him? “Y-yes, it is,” he said, straightening up and reluctantly handing over the missive. “For you, sir.”

Dr. Bumby accepted it, smiling as he saw the return address. “Ah – at last,” he said, opening it. “I'd almost forgotten I'd written to them. Now, let’s see. . . .”

Victor lingered nearby as the doctor scanned the letter, rocking on his heels and squeezing his hands together to keep them from fidgeting. Elsie toyed with one of the figurines from the dollhouse, looking as impatient as he for the verdict. After an absolutely agonizing two minutes, Dr. Bumby finally looked up with a scowl. “Hmph. Apparently your parents are not as interested in your mental health as I had hoped.”

Victor’s heart leapt. They’d said no? His mother had actually said _no_? What wonderful madness had infected her? “May I see the letter?” he asked, as politely as possible.

Dr. Bumby sighed, but handed it over regardless, shaking his head. “You may as well – but be sure return it to me once you’re done. I’ll need it to craft an adequate reply.” He hit Victor with his most severe look. “And don’t start thinking of celebrating just yet. I will convince your parents yet that you need more powerful treatments. This is just a temporary setback on your road to wellness."

"You know, with all due respect, Dr. Bumby – even if they _had_ said 'yes,' I'm under no obligation to obey," Victor said, feeling a familiar frustration crawl through his veins. "I'm twenty years old – by all rights, I should be out on my own anyway."

"A point on which we actually agree, Master Van Dort. But the sad fact is, you're not mentally healthy enough to be on your own."

"Sir, I've just walked the length and breadth of the East End searching for Alice!" Victor pointed out. "And come home in one piece! Surely that proves–"

"That you're an admirably loyal friend," Dr. Bumby cut him off, though he pronounced the word "loyal" as if it were a swear. "But Alice wandered those same streets in a hallucinatory fit and came home in one piece too – thank God, of course. I know you believe you're much more competent than you actually are,but for the time being, you’re still under _my_ care, which makes _me_ responsible for you." He glared at the young man. "Which also means I have permission to punish you if necessary.”

Victor gritted his teeth, hearing the letter crinkle as his fingers tightened on it. This was infuriating. Why was he still being treated as a third-class citizen? It wasn't like he was some drooling idiot sitting in the corner of a cell at Rutledge. He was a man who'd stared death in the face and come out the other side intact. A man who'd proven himself capable of taking on one of the biggest threats of Whitechapel when lives were on the line. Why couldn't anyone recognize that? _Maybe_ _I should invest some of my meager allowance into a punching bag,_ he thought irritably. _I could pretend it’s everyone who doesn’t think I’m capable of surviving_ _here_ _after almost half a year._

However, saying that would just invite more trouble onto his head than he already had. Bumby was obviously not in a mood to listen. Best not to antagonize the beast. “I understand, sir,” he said with cold, careful control. “You'll have the letter back by supper.”

"Thank you." With a satisfied nod, Dr. Bumby went on his way.

Elsie peered at the wrinkled pages in Victor’s hand. “Huh! No pills?" she asked, trying to tug them free for a better look. "Your parents don’t care if you’re sick or not, do they?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Victor said, leaning over the nearby table to smooth out the sheets. "Though you're right, it is odd that they wouldn't immediately leap to approve anything Bumby suggested for me." He picked up the first page and started to read. "Let's see. . . ."

The beginning wasn't very interesting – his mother's usual simpering toward anyone with any power over her. She started with thanking Dr. Bumby for all he was doing for their “recalcitrant son” and how she and her husband were just shocked there hadn’t been a turnaround yet. _“I_ _can't believe our Victor has turned out to be the rebellious sort! He was such a terrified little thing growing up_ _–_ _wouldn't sleep without a nightlight, wouldn't talk to strangers, wouldn't go near an animal except for his dog and butterflies._ _How people change! We’re terribly sorry for all the trouble he’s caused you_ _, and deeply appreciate your patience with him. Where he found this stubborn streak, I have no idea._ _I’ll make sure you get a special bonus in your next cheque for putting up with him for so long._

“ _As to your suggestion about starting more radical treatments, I personally would love to authorize you to try anything and everything that brilliant mind of yours could devise to cure Victor. We’re all quite tired of him refusing to see sense. The trouble is my husband. Apparently my son gets his usually-weak nerves from William, I’m sad to say. I’ve always thought him an intelligent man, but he had a completely irrational fit of anxiety over the word “radical.” Said it sounded like you wanted to send our boy away to the madhouse. I told him time again that you probably didn't mean that – and even if it did, then it was only for Victor’s own good – but he just wouldn’t listen to reason! I knew the illness ran in his side of the family. . . ._

“ _But don’t worry too much, Dr. Bumby. I sat him down for a good long talk the other day, and he’s not as opposed to your idea as I first feared. He wants our son to get well as much as I do, he claimed – he just doesn’t like the word ‘radical.’ He wants to know exactly what it is you plan to do to Victor to get his mind back in the proper order. I confess to my own curiosity on this subject – though not enough to stop you from whatever you have in mind – so if you could send us the details of your proposed treatment, that would go a long way toward settling my husband’s nerves and finally bringing an end to this unhappy affair.”_

Victor breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he reached the _"Yours sincerely, Mrs. Van Dort."_ _Whew! Saved by the skin of my teeth, it looks like._ _Thank you for that moment of pause, Father!_ “It seems Dr. Bumby scared them a bit, that's all,” he reported to Elsie. “They don't mind me taking pills and the like, they just want to know what _precisely_ he's planning on doing.”

"'Spe-cia-lized ther-a-py,'" Elsie said, carefully pronouncing each word. "That's what he'll tell them. It's what he tells everybody who asks what happens to us before we leave."

"I think my mother would require a rather more specific answer."

“To what?” Alice asked, entering the room. "And does it have anything to do with Dr. Bumby walking around looking as if his mustache has developed a bad smell?"

“Yes," Victor nodded, holding up the letter. "I never got a chance to tell you that Dr. Bumby threatened me with 'radical treatments' before, did I?"

"Um, no, that didn't come up," Alice said, paling. "He's not going to start stuffing those pills down your throat, is he? They've done bugger-all for me. And the last thing you need is extra sessions to fight with him."

“Not yet – I’ve gotten a reprieve, Alice," Victor assured her. "Mother was all for it, but Father’s nerves failed him.”

“Ah! Lucky,” Alice replied, brightening. “Though I'd bet five pounds that this is only temporary.”

“And win,” Victor confessed, glancing back down at the letter. “Like I said, Mother’s already given her blanket approval for anything Dr. Bumby might have in mind, and all Father wants is the details of the treatment. One more letter and enough hounding by Mother. . . .” He let out a sigh. “I heard a shoe factory a few streets over is looking for men. How do you rate my chances?”

“They wouldn't take mad people,” Elsie declared, shaking her head.

“Not even to sweep the floors? I know how to do that very well now!"

"Little one has a point, I’m afraid," Alice said with a sympathetic grumble. "The moment you came to live here, you were stained with the mark of insanity. And that’s a hard one to wash out. Especially with most of the East End drenched in rumors over your – 'appetites.'" Victor growled in the back of his throat. "If it makes you feel any better, people aren't likely to say it to your face these days, not after you put down Jack Splatter." She rubbed her arm. "I was quite lucky that Dr. Bumby was willing to take me on as a worker as well as a patient. You, I think, will have to be dependent upon your parents’ allowance and goodwill for a while more.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Victor muttered.

“Well, we’re always told we’re never given more burdens to shoulder than we’re able to bear,” Alice said philosophically. “Which is a load of horse–”

Her voice stopped mid-swear as her eyes abruptly latched onto the table. For a few moments, she and a lopsided stack of books held a staring contest. Then she scowled and wrenched her attention back to her friend. “Manure," she continued primly, folding her hands in front of her stomach. "Though I suppose it's comforting manure to those most burdened.”

Victor nodded. "Yes. . .are you all right?"

"Fine," Alice insisted, setting her jaw and staring hard at him. "Just fine." Despite her best efforts, though, her gaze slowly traveled back toward the books, as if drawn by magnets. “. . .I've an idea, how about we go for a walk? I need to pick up dinner anyway.”

“What’s on the table?” Elsie sing-songed again, grinning.

Alice gritted her teeth. “Nothing,” she growled, managing finally to pull her eyes away. “Nothing whatsoever.”

"Don't look like nothing."

"Well, it is," Victor said, fighting the urge to turn around and give the table a hard glare of his own. _Oh dear – I’ve_ _finally_ _spent too much time_ _listening to stories of Wonderland, haven't I?_ _T_ _hough given th_ _e_ _se hallucinations nearly sent her to her death_ _, I doubt anyone could blame me for being cross with them_ _. . . ._ “And I’d be delighted to take a walk with you, Alice. Let me just return this letter to Dr. Bumby, and we’ll be off.”

Pure gratefulness suffused Alice's features. “Thank you.”

“Awww, don't pretend you're normal folks now,” Elsie complained, folding her arms. “Shoutin' at stuff nobody else can see is what you're best at! Come on, Victor, tell it it's being bad. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“He will do nothing of the sort," Alice said, turning pointedly away from the books. "We don't shout at invisible things around here anymore.”

Elsie pouted. “But it was so funny when he did it with the Boojum. Even you laughed.”

“That was – do you lot _want_ me back in Rutledge?” Alice demanded, eyebrows low. “Perhaps I should yell at _you_ to go away, if you're so eager to hear me scream.”

"Elsie, stop it," Victor scolded, shaking the letter at her. "You know better than to be a pest. Go find something else to do."

Elsie rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. . .you two were better than Punch and Judy, once,” she muttered as she walked away. "Doctor ruins everything. . . ."

Victor waited until she was well out of the room, then put a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “You _did_ say I was free to scold–” he started in a whisper.

Alice shook her head violently. “ _No_ _,_ " she hissed, waving her hand. "I know I said that, but – let's not even give it the pleasure of acknowledgment. It’ll only encourage the dratted things.” She turned toward the door in a swirl of skirts. "I just want to get out of the house and do something _normal_. Like everyone else for a change."

“You'll hear no objections from me.” Victor glanced at the letter, then tossed it onto the table and took Alice’s arm. "Dr. Bumby can find it well enough there. Let's go." _And I_ _hope I hit whatever it was she_ _saw_ _,_ he thought as they went outside. “So, what _is_ on the menu for dinner?”

October 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

12:15 P.M.

“Here you are. Thank you for your business, sir!”

“You’re welcome!” Victor replied, giving the salesman a cheerful nod as he accepted his cup. The thick white liquid inside glistened like cream – _a very good sign_ , he thought as he moved out of the way of the next customer. _Still, might as well make doubly sure. . . ._ He lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed.

Nothing – certainly no hint of the sinus-clearing sourness of rancid milk, or the slight mustiness of chalk in water. "I pronounce you safe," Victor informed the drink, wandering up the street looking for a quiet spot to enjoy it. "Which is more than I can say for that pudding man who lingers closer to Houndsditch. How he does any business when everyone  _knows_ he substitutes rat droppings for raisins is beyond me. . . ."

He found a relatively-clean bit of wall next to the mouth of one of Whitechapel's many alleyways and leaned against it, watching the crowds of people pass to and fro before him. It was lunchtime for many, and the street vendors were taking full advantage of the desire to fill an empty belly. They prowled up and down the sidewalks with battered metal trays or set up little folding tables on the streets, calling out their wares and all but dragging potential customers to have a taste. "Oysters! Fresh oysters here!"

"Bloaters, hot off the flame! Guaranteed from our own Thames!"

"A cup of rice milk for the wee laddie? It'll make ye grow up big and strong!"

"No, a boy like that needs a nice roasted trotter! Got 'em straight from the slaughterhouse this morning!"

"Get your ginger beer! Nothing like a good bottle of ginger beer on a warm day!"

"Meat pies! Sausage inna bun! Interest you in a little something to go with your milk, gov'nor?"

"No thank you, Mr. Dibbler," Victor quickly said, holding up a hand.

"You sure? Gave me tuppence once!"

_Yes, before Alice could warn me off the "meat" you use,_ Victor thought, shaking his head.  _And unfortunately before I'd taken a bite and found out for myself!_ "I'm just fine with this, Mr. Dibbler."

A disappointed Dibbler turned away and started chasing after the next poor fool. Victor sighed and took a sip of his milk. He felt for the people who had to rely on those like Mr. Dibbler to survive. Whitechapel street food was the ultimate crapshoot. Half the meat was rotting off the bone, and seafood was likely to make a sudden reappearance on your shoes later in the day. Even something as innocuous as the supposedly-nutritious saloop was often in fact a stew of used tea leaves plucked from the middens. Alice and the children had bombarded him with horror stories after his encounter with Mr. Dibbler's supposed "pie," and he hadn't been able to stomach another bite of food all that day. Even after his appetite's voracious return the next morning, he'd steered clear of anyone selling anything "edible" for the rest of the month. 

Eventually, though, having a few extra shillings in his pocket and a regularly-growling stomach to appease, he'd learned a few of the tricks and determined who was at least somewhat safe. The fruit stall in the market generally made an effort to keep their produce clean and fresh, and Alice had vouched for the local butcher's pork pies. You avoided the plum duff man like the plague, but his friend the treacle salesman was all right. And now, it seemed Victor could add Mr. Brown, with his pails of fresh donkey's milk, to the list. _Which is good, because otherwise I might have died of thirst,_ he thought, running his fingers through his damp hair. _I don't mind the brief return of a bit of summer heat, but it feels magnified tenfold after a morning of chasing children around the courtyard._ _I don’t think I’ve sweated this much since_ _– well, since_ _I ran into the Mangled Mermaid_ _. I need to track down the addresses of my old governesses and write them apologies for my own wild moments when I was small. Whew!_ He took another sip, smiling as the cool creamy liquid coursed down his throat. _Mmmm – this is quite good, actu–_

Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. Victor yelped as he was dragged abruptly into the alley, milk sloshing everywhere. "What – who do you–" he started, trying to twist free.

“Hello, _swell_.”

Victor froze. That voice – it wasn't supposed to be out on these streets, not for a good long while yet. “S-Sp-Splatter?” he whispered. “Aren’t – aren’t you s-supposed to be in gaol?”

“Finally got meself out,” Jack Splatter growled. What little of his face Victor could see by craning his neck was dark as thunder. “That bunter Annette finally dumped enough money into the chief’s coffers to let me off. Damn near twenty pounds! You got any idea how long it takes to squeeze that out of these skinflints? Good half my life savings!" His fingers tightened painfully, digging into Victor's skin. “And now I think I’m gonna take it back out of your arse.”

“Um – i-if it's all the same to you, I'd rather p-pay you properly,” Victor said, directing a weak smile over his shoulder. "You know, in c-cash." Oh dear, he hoped he didn't sound flip. He was perfectly happy to just hand over his entire wallet to the pimp if it meant getting out of here in one piece.

“Ain’t all the same to me,” Splatter responded, coming back with a glare. “You know they talked about wanting to hang me? Over Long Tim? What a crock! I ain't gonna dance the hemp fandango for a shitter like him. But worse than that was everybody _laughin'_ at me! Seemed to think our little tiff was the biggest joke in the world!" He leaned up close, eyes wild. "Even the pigs were in on it!  ‘That swell nobbled Splatter’ – well, that swell’s gonna see what Jack Splatter’s made of now!”

_Damn it!_ Victor thought, his insides trying to curl up on themselves. _Why didn't I take_ _Madam Sharpe and_ _Officer Hightopp's comment_ _s_ _more seriously? Though I didn't think I'd be encountering him again this soon. . .time to see if I can get lucky twice_ _!_ Wrenching out of Splatter's grip, he threw away his cup (hopefully Mr. Brown wouldn't mind the loss too much), then whirled around, aiming a milk-soaked fist right at the pimp's nose.

Unfortunately, this time Splatter had anticipated such a move. He sidestepped the punch, then rammed his own fist into Victor's jaw as the young man stumbled. A shockwave of pain shot through Victor's skull as he struggled to keep his balance. _**Ow!**_ _Still, could have been worse –_ And then Splatter’s sharp-toed shoe slammed into his right leg. _Like that._

Splatter laughed as Victor just barely caught himself on the wall, clutching at his injured shin. “Don’t like it when it’s you on the other end of the hit, do you, you blooming toff?” he said. “Well, you’re gonna like this even less.” A large meat cleaver appeared in his hand, its blade stained rust-red with old blood. “Don’t worry, though – filthy rich boy like yourself can live without a few fingers, right?”

Victor’s heart nearly stopped beating. _No_ _–_ _no no no no_ _!_ he thought wildly, pressing himself flat against the wall, hands tucked behind his back. _Have to get out of here, I have to get out of here_ _!_ His eyes flicked toward the alley entrance, just a few precious feet away. If he could just make a dash for it and lose himself in the crowd. . .but his leg was throbbing like mad. If he tried to run now, he'd probably end up as a heap on the ground. _Which is likely why he kicked me._ _And I think he stuffed part of a brick or something in the toe,_ he thought, wincing at a fresh pulse of pain. _Should it really hurt this badly? Oh, but I've got to try. . . ._

“Thinkin' of running?” Splatter taunted, following his gaze. “Ain't like anybody out there's gonna give tuppence 'bout you. Hell, halfa them would just throw you back in!” Splatter’s hand darted out and caught Victor’s arm. “Not like I'm gonna let you loose anyway,” he added, dragging the young man further back and spinning them around so he stood in the alley's mouth. Victor tripped and fell from the force of the sudden turn, yelping as his shoulder crashed against the cobbles. “Your neck's pretty thin. . .could probably whack it off with one slice. Or maybe I'll start with the shoulders, butcher ya like a hog. . . .”

Victor forced himself back to his feet as Splatter began advancing. Half his body was screaming in pain now, and his stomach was attempting to shove breakfast back up his throat. But he refused to just give up and let this perverted pimp turn him into a pile of long pork chops. He backed up a few paces, and hit a solid stone wall. Just his luck this confrontation would take place in a dead-end. . . . His eyes darted left and right. Heavy brick surrounded him on both sides, and getting past Splatter to freedom was an impossibility in his state. There just wasn’t anywhere to go!

_Except. . . ._

Quick as a wink, Victor lurched right, grabbed onto the wall, and started climbing. His sensitive fingers, quite familiar with this sort of situation (though Gordon Tannen had never been even half as dangerous), promptly alerted him to every useful crack and handhold. Within minutes, he was already a good quarter of the way up the aged brick. His bruised leg and shoulder protested angrily as he pushed himself farther toward the sky, but he ignored them. Better to suffer a little pain now than to die on the cobbles – or worse, be forced to give up his precious piano for life.

Splatter froze at Victor's sudden action, unable to comprehend for a moment what was happening. “What the hell are you – hey, get back here!” He snatched at the young man’s ankle, but Victor kicked him off and soon ascended out of reach. Splatter jumped a few times, trying to snag his foot. “You think it’s that easy to get away from me, swell?” 

_I certainly hope it is!_ Victor thought, glancing down at the pimp. He took a brief breather, clinging to the wall like a spider, before continuing his climb. _Come on, come on. . . ._

“You–” Splatter attempted to follow him up the wall, but it soon became apparent he hadn't spent his childhood regularly racing up the nearest tall object like Victor had. It was only moments before his calloused hands betrayed him, and he thumped back onto the ground. "Son of a bitch!" he roared, striking the wall with his cleaver in frustration. A shower of sparks leapt from the blade. “I ain’t losing to no swell! Go on, just try to give me the slip! See you up top, wanker!”

With that, the pimp vanished from the alley, eyes full of rage-induced determination. Victor pressed himself against the wall, breathing heavily. _Right. Okay then. One, two, three, four, five. . . ._

He stayed where he was until he'd hit sixty twice, figuring that gave Splatter just enough time to force his way into the building and maybe even start up the stairs. Then, teeth gritted against the pain, he carefully descended. His hands slipped a couple of times, and his leg gave out from under him once he made it back to the cobbles, but Victor dragged himself back upright and limped off as fast as he could. _Please, please, let him be too angry or too dim to realize the trick!_

Luck was with him this time – Splatter was indeed one or the other, and he made it to the safety of the Home unmolested. Better yet, Alice was outside, sweeping the front step. She glanced up as he sagged against the front gate, then did a double take. “Victor!" she cried, dropping the broom. "What–”

“Splatter,” Victor said, rubbing his jaw. Oh yes – he’d be sporting some nice bruises for a while. And his leg probably wasn't going to forgive him anytime soon. “Looking for a bit of revenge. He was planning much worse, but I managed to get away.”

“I can see that.” Alice took his chin, examining the purpling flesh, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Let's get you inside, and I'll fetch Dr. Tewsbury. Who is probably not going to be overly impressed with you, I might add."

"I'll live," Victor muttered as she helped him down the little path.

"Well, yes, that's his job." Alice paused before opening the door. "So – still worth knocking Splatter on his arse?”

Victor thought. His jaw, shoulder, and leg bombarded him with furious complaints, backed up by lingering nausea and terror. . .but then, just for a moment, he was back in front of the Mermaid, knuckles throbbing as bone cracked against bone and the pimp was sent flying. _“That swell just nobbled Splatter!”_ echoed in his ears, followed shortly by, _“_ _I say if someone like that could lay a finger on him, he's losin' his touch_ _,”_ and _“_ _Seemed to think our little tiff was the biggest joke in the world!_ _”_ And, despite everything, he'd just proved the bastard a fool yet again and lived. He grinned at her, ignoring the pain. “Yes. Yes it was.”

October 16th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

10:46 A.M.

“That is _it_!”

Victor jumped, dropping his quill as the shout echoed down to his room. “I am _trying_ to get on with a normal life, you know!” Alice's infuriated voice continued. Abandoning his sketch, Victor tracked it to the front foyer. Poking his head around the doorway revealed his friend glaring, arms folded tight, at the table – or, rather, at a point a couple of feet above it. “Or are you lot determined that I see the inside of a madhouse again?”

Ah. Victor sighed, then rounded the frame to join her. “Who is it?”

Alice glanced at him, face scrunched up in a scowl. “The Cheshire Cat,” she growled, grinding her teeth together. “Asking me why I’m wallowing in Whitechapel when there’s things to do. As if I'm not busy enough here.”

Victor put a comforting hand on her shoulder, then frowned at the spot where he guessed, in Alice’s mind, the Cat sat. "Want me to try?"

"Please. They seem to actually _listen_ to you."

He nodded and shook a finger at the empty air. “Look, she’s had a very trying time of it over the past few weeks – and it’s not like Wonderland is being all that welcoming,” he scolded. “How many attempted visits during her sessions have you refused? If you're not going to let her in, can’t you just leave her be?”

The table provided no answer – at least, not to his ears. “He says that, if he had his way, he’d be lying by a warm hearth with a full belly,” Alice said, rolling her eyes. “But circumstances forbid." She put her hands on her hips with a sniff. "You know, I bet the Duchess would take you back, mangy old thing. You’re too thin for her to even consider for the stewpot.” A pause. “No, you do _not_ have more meat on your bones than Victor – and he’s not ‘tall, dark, and dead-looking.’ According to him, dead people are blue.”

Victor sighed again as Alice continued arguing with the imaginary creature. _And she was trying so hard, too,_ he thought, rubbing his forehead right between his eyes. _I mean, you could tell she was still seeing things, the way she started at shadows and frowned at empty windows, but she'd kept herself from talking to any of them. I wonder what snapped inside her today?_

"My not liking Dr. Bumby's therapy is no reason for you not to attend! If I make the effort to keep going, you can too. Don't give me that 'cats will do as they please,' Dinah and her kittens were never this ill-tempered."

_Ah, right. She had a particularly miserable session yesterday, didn't she? And Dr. Bumby is still forcing her to take those pills. . . . Maybe I should be wondering why she didn't start yelling at empty tables earlier._ “Is there anything I can do?” he asked her, gesturing vaguely at the table.

“Not unless you know how to make a Cat who is thinner than your average skeleton stop pestering me about it being the time to reenter Wonderland,” Alice responded, flicking a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.

“Well. . .I do know the way to Billingsgate very well now. Or if he'd be satisfied with tinned fish, there's plenty at the local market.”

Her bad mood lifted slightly as she giggled. “Unfortunately, he’s not the type to be tempted by food. He eats little enough as it is.”

“Probably a survival tactic when dealing with the Duchess.” Victor rubbed his chin, a sudden thought striking him. “Why is he the one who’s pestering you, though? You’re late, you’re late – isn’t this more the White Rabbit’s job?”

“It is, isn’t it? Where _is_ Rabbit?” Alice asked the table, arching an eyebrow. “Did he really die on that river? I hope not, it was hard enough the first time he – passed away. . . .” She tilted her head toward the answer only she could hear, then groaned. “Yes, that _would_ be the case. . . .”

“What?” Victor inquired, puzzled.

“He said that it’s up to me whether Rabbit’s dead or not, and if I want to know for sure, I ought to go fetch him.” She massaged her temples. “Which means Radcliffe’s again." She glanced out the window. "Well, it’s been a month – perhaps we can talk a bit more civilly. I won’t even mention the fire this time. I’ll just beg for my toy.”

“You’re sure you want to go back?” Victor had to ask. “After the mess last time?”

“I want my rabbit,” Alice said, looking up at him with tired eyes. “I never meant to lose him in the first place. Maybe if I get him, some of the hallucinations will stop. And even if they don’t, at least I’ll have something to hug when they upset me.” Her lips twitched upward. “Well, besides you.”

Victor smiled back. “Well, I may not be as soft as Rabbit, but I’m always available." His hands found his tie and gave it a tug. “However, I'm going to have to insist on accompanying you this time. I haven't swallowed a houseful's worth of smoke to stop me – and if Radcliffe _does_ get distracted by me being _nouveau riche_ , as you predicted, well, maybe it's for the best. I could keep him talking while you searched for your doll.”

“I don't think that would work very well. . .but you’re right, you should come along,” Alice agreed, grabbing one of his hands and swinging it between them. “I don't fancy either making a scene or having an episode – at least, not without someone there to pull me back from the worst of it.”

“Me either,” Victor said, the ghost of a familiar twinge in his legs as he thought back to September's little adventure. “Shall we go now, then? Fetch your poor White Rabbit back to Wonderland where he belongs?”

“I'm in favor – and it seems Cheshire is too," Alice said, eyes following the invisible creature to the door. "Not quite complete without him there. Let's go.”

The day was typical of most days in London – overcast and gloomy, with a hint of rain in the air. Victor studied the mass of cloud with a frown. "Should I duck back in and get your umbrella?"

"No, it's not supposed to do anything," Alice replied, tugging him forward. "Besides, if that umbrella's in any shape to keep out the weather after I beat it to death against my wardrobe, I'd be surprised."

"Fair enough," Victor admitted, then grinned. "Too bad you can't summon that lovely parasol you keep with you in Wonderland. You could send all the rain springing back up into the clouds."

"Which I don't think anyone behind us would appreciate, as it would just rain all the harder on them." Alice worked out a knot in her hair as they proceeded in the general direction of Threadneedle Street. “I should thank you," she added, apropos of nothing.

"What for?"

"Lots of things, but currently for being such a good sport about all this,” she clarified, tossing her head and sending her tangled waves tumbling. “Me wandering about, getting into trouble, and rambling on. . .even Nanny's tired of my stories of Wonderland by this time. You are shockingly tolerant.”

“How can I not be? You weave such fantastic tales,” Victor replied. 

"That almost never make any sense. You've remarked on that yourself."

“Maybe they don't, but I still love to hear about all of the domains, and the creatures within them. If you were the author of a penny dreadful, I'd have snapped up the whole collection.” He nudged her gently. “Besides, you put up with my talk of the Land of the Dead.”

“Take what you just said and reverse it,” Alice grinned. “It's a wonderful afterlife, and I'd like to be a part of it someday. When I'm about 80 or so, preferably, but. . . ." She wrinkled her nose. "I confess, though, that I still find it gruesome they’ll eat each other’s body parts.”

“Trust me, I understand completely. I confess I still have a hard time picturing what exactly a Boojum is,” Victor said with a sheepish look. “Even having yelled at one once.”

“It's rather hard to put them into words. If the Insane Children ever relinquish my art skills, I’ll draw _you_ a picture for a change.”

“I'll look forward to it. But really, Alice, I don't need to understand everything you say to love the world," he continued. “I wish I had a Wonderland like yours.”

“What, trying to kill you at every moment? Then again, in your mind, death is hardly the worst that could happen to a person.”

"You know what I mean – something like the Vale of Tears at its best." Victor tilted his head toward the sky as he tried to picture knotted, shady trees and mushrooms as big as dinner tables popping out of a carpet of lush green grass. "Though I probably _would_ end up sticking bits of Below into it. Simply for the colors."

"Your ideal world would be one covered with blotches of bright paint, wouldn't it? Makes one wonder why you work in black and white so of–"

“Merow. . . .”

Alice’s head snapped forward. “You again!”

“What?” Victor said, blinking as he tried to keep up.

"Remember how I told you I followed a furry creature down a dark hole to begin my journey?" Alice pointed. A few paces before them, a white cat sat on the cobbles, grooming itself with its tongue. “Well, there it is, large as life and twice as natural!”

Victor squinted at it. "The one who led you to Witless?"

"Yes! And it was on the Billingsgate dock when I was pulled from the water!"

“Really? I never saw it.”

“Well, it ran off when I tried to approach it. . .what do you want this time, puss?” Alice asked the creature, hands on her hips.

The cat finished licking its tail, then padded over to them. Victor watched as it began winding itself around his legs, purr rumbling through his shins. “Well, it seems to like me,” he commented, bending down to give it a few strokes.

Alice snorted like a bull. “Hmph. That's hardly fair, puss. All this time I’ve spent chasing you, and you choose _him_ to lavish affection on?” She shook her finger at the feline. “Naughty cat.”

The cat blinked at her, bright yellow eyes full of innocence. Then it walked away from the pair, tail held high with the tip twitching. As it reached the intersection, it stopped and gave them a very demanding stare. Alice shook her head. “Oh no," she said, taking Victor's hand again. "Unless you’re going to Radcliffe’s–”

“Oi! Swell!”

Victor's heart jumped in terror and missed a few beats. “Damn it. . . ." He whirled toward the nearest alley, dragging Alice with him as he prepared to set a new record for the one-mile sprint.

It was too late, though – Jack Splatter's fingers were already digging into his arm, and a meaty crony the size of a small privy (and smelling much the same too) was dragging Alice away from him. Alice kicked and squirmed as they clung together, to no avail. "Leave her alone!" he cried as the animate side of beef finally pulled their hands apart. 

"Don't worry, cannery king," Splatter smirked as Alice's arms were pinned behind her back. "I got gentle plans for her." He seized Victor's wrist, squeezing so hard Victor was stunned he didn't hear a snap. “You, on the other hand. . .well, you ain't gonna have one of those soon," he continued, drawing a wicked-looking knife.

“Monstrous creature! Let him be!” Alice yelled, twisting in her captor's grip.

“Or you’ll do what?” Splatter asked with a mocking smile. “Set that cheese-cat yer always yapping to on me?" Victor attempted to free himself, only to nearly end up on his knees as the pimp yanked him forward. "Do better to shut your mouth. I could be a gentleman with you, just for laughs. . .or I could make it so you end up like that bloated Nan of yours.”

Rage clouded Victor's vision. “You touch her and I'll–” he started, making a lunge for the knife.

Splatter pulled it out of reach and kneed him in the stomach. “That bit don't concern you,” he informed Victor as the young man gasped for air. “I just want her to see what happens to those who hurt me feelings. Seems she didn’t get the message last time.” He raised the blade high. "No funny business now, Can Dort – I always get what I’m owed!”

“ _ROWR!_ ”

A blur of white rocketed into Splatter’s face, all teeth and claws and mindless rage. The pimp screamed in surprise and pain, releasing Victor’s wrist and dropping the knife as he flailed at the monster attacking him. "GAH! AGH! OW! GERROFF!"

Victor dropped to his hands and knees, trembling over his near escape. _Oh God, too close, too close. . . ._ Spotting the knife near him, he snatched it up and scrambled back to his feet. _What on earth saved – is that the cat?!_

It was indeed, clinging to the top of Splatter's head and raking at his nose like it was a particularly stubborn mouse. Splatter whirled in circles as he tried to dislodge it, blood gushing down his face. "Shit! Donny, get this damn thing off me!"

"But you said I has to hold GEEEUNNNGH!"

The crony stumbled as a black-shoed foot nailed him straight in the crotch. Alice followed up with an elbow to his pig-like snout, before grabbing Victor's wrist and dragging him down the street. "I think we've reached the point where this is no longer worth the pleasure of having knocked him on his arse!" she shouted.

“I thought he’d be in gaol for longer!” Victor shouted back, finally getting his legs into the same rhythm as hers. “Trust me, I don’t want to deal with this every time I step outside either!”

"Mow!"

A streak of snowy fur passed between them, the cat apparently having tired of using Splatter as a scratching post. It slammed itself into the side of Victor’s leg as it ran by, almost knocking him over. “Ow! What the–” 

The cat fixed its yellow eyes on his face, meowing commandingly. Then it cut in front of him and ran right, down a nearby alley. Victor slowed to a stop from pure confusion. “Why–”

Alice paused too, a strange look on her face. She glanced at Victor, then at the still-recovering men behind them, then finally down both sides of the intersection. Then she put on a determined frown and nodded. “Follow it.”

“What?!”

“Follow it! Jack's more interested in you than me, and I bet the cat knows it – and knows a good place to hide! I’ll go on to Radcliffe’s – I'll be safe enough in the West End.” 

"You've got to get there first!"

"Don't worry about me! I can look after my own skin." She darted down the left-hand way, waving at him. “Go! I’ll meet you on Threadneedle Street – and I promise I won’t stir from Radcliffe’s house until you get there!”

"Alice!" Victor started, but strong, angry footsteps behind him made him realize he didn’t have any other choice. Keeping a tight grip on the knife (if Splatter caught up, maybe he could fend him off with a jab to the ribs), he darted after the cat. 

It was waiting with surprising patience at the end of the alley, but took off again the moment it saw him. Victor pursued it through a maze of cobbles and brick, doing his best to keep it in sight despite sharp turns and the occasional loose shirt flapping down from the sky. Splatter and Donny's footsteps soon faded away, but he didn't dare stop running. Who knew what dark, secluded spot they would pop out of next?

Finally, the cat popped out onto another busy street, zipping across the road and into a tiny gap between a cheese shop and a bookstore. Victor dodged around a cabbie and his horse and squeezed in after the feline. "Ooh. . .oooh. . .w-well, he certainly can't get me in here," he panted, pressing his back against the cheese shop's creaking wood. "B-barely bigger than a rathole. . . ." He raised a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. "Things really s-shouldn't be so difficult. . .and I so didn’t want us to get separated again. . .ow!”

He looked down to see the cat climbing up his side, claws pricking through his trousers into his flesh. It settled on his shoulder and rubbed its cheek against his, purring. Victor frowned. “You’re an awfully intelligent and tricky feline," he noted. "Almost like Alice’s descriptions of the Cheshire Cat. Though you’re rather plain to be his London disguise.”

The cat blinked at him, cocking its head to the side. Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I’ve gone among mad people too long. But – if you _are_ Cheshire in some way, shape, or form–" He lightly poked the cat's nose. "I’m blaming _you_ if she’s not at Radcliffe’s.”

The cat mewed and jumped off, taking up guard at the mouth of the gap. Victor turned his gaze to the grey sky, waiting for Splatter and his hired meat to pass him by. _Definitely looks like rain now. . .h_ _ow do I keep getting into these situations? Ugh. . . ._ He let his head thunk against the wall. _Please, please,_ please _,_ he begged whoever might be listening. _Don’t let this turn into a repeat of the last time she left me behind!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of my reviewers over on FF.net have inspired parts of this particular chapter: 
> 
> Thedarkcountess1993, for mentioning that Victor probably needs a haircut after all this time
> 
> CoriOreo, for making me realize Jack Splatter needed to come back with a mind on revenge.
> 
> Also, spot the Discworld reference! I'll give you a hint: he's known for his rather "interesting" food. . .


	13. An Unpleasant Return

October 16th, 1875

Threadneedle Street, London’s West End, England

11:30 A.M.

“Did I rip his head off? I. . .wanted to. . . .”

The sound of her own voice was a shock, pulling her abruptly from the blackness. Alice pushed herself up with a groan, pressing her hand against her face. _What happened?_ she wondered, rubbing circles on her forehead. _Why am I on the floor? The last thing I remember is. . . ._

_"Tell me, Alice – and please, try not to take this the wrong way – did you like to play with matches as a girl?"_

Black, white, and red rage nipped at her consciousness. _That fat bastard!_ she thought, teeth gritted. _How dare he – no, wait a minute. Wasn't that – wasn't that the last time I came here? I seem to remember the sun shining through the window. . .of course, I wouldn't put it past him to do something as silly as say it again, but. . . ._ She blinked a few times, staring at the floor. _Focus, Alice, focus. Go through it from the beginning._ _I made it to Threadneedle Street. . ._ _Radcliffe buzzed me in. . .I went up to his office_ _. . .and he had my rabbit sitting on his desk, bold as brass! Told me again that I'd abandoned it at the asylum! Stuff and nonsense – they shoved me out the door before I could check_ _it_ _was securely packed! I should have just snatched it from him and –_

_And why would he have Mr. Bunny on his_ desk _, he's a lawyer and a very dull one at that. Why would he be playing with stuffed toys? Of course, that begs the question of why he took the damn thing in the first place. I guess it_ is _part of my inheritance – and not worth enough to finance an Australian farm. Cannot believe he suggested that, as if I were a criminal being thrown into exile. . . . Still, given all the trouble I've thrown his way over it, you'd think he'd have either returned it or chucked it in the bin by now. Ugh. . . ._ "What's left of my brain will explode," she complained to the floorboards. " Did  I simply faint once I was inside? Would go along with every other rotten thing that's happened today." She brushed dirt from her skirt. "And shame on Mr. Radcliffe for just leaving me in the dust!"

Dust?

Alice frowned. That didn't make sense. Radcliffe was a stickler for a clean house – she'd seen him berate his maids plenty in the past for failing to properly dust his various Oriental ornaments:"They're worth at least fifty times what I pay you in a year, so they _must_ be taken care of!" So why in God's name would his office be so – 

So. . . .

Alice’s jaw dropped as she finally took in her surroundings. She was still in Radcliffe’s office, but the only reason she knew that was because the wallpaper (what was left of it) was the same. The room had been utterly trashed since she'd seen it last. Crooked boards covered the windows, letting in only small slivers of light. The fireplace was dark and cold, and even the ashes had long since blown away. The bookshelves, the vases and pots, the fine Chinese rug, the set of authentic Japanese samurai armor – all had vanished into the aether. The only furnishings left in the room were a teetering pile of books, cocooned in dust; Radcliffe's old desk, now scratched and gnawed; and the busted remains of a pair of chairs, scattered across the floor. This room was certainly no longer host to the operations of a moderately-well-off lawyer now. By the look of things, it had been abandoned for at least a month, if not longer. _What the – how long was I out?!_ Alice thought, scrambling to her feet and looking around wildly. _Where’s Radcliffe? And my rabbit? Were they ever even here? What is going on?!_

The only answer to her questions was a jolt of pain across her skull. Alice winced and squeezed her temples. “Let's try not to panic,” she told herself. "Maybe I never even made it to Radcliffe's. Taking a wrong turn while fleeing from Splatter is very likely – and seeing what I wanted to see when I did, even more so." She stepped forward and touched the desk as a test. It seemed solid enough under her fingers – but then, she could say the same of the Vorpal Blade. “Of course, having copies of people from reality yell at me is something of a new experience. Is it mad to pray for better hallucinations?”

The empty office gave her no reply. Alice sighed. “This is what I get for listening to that mangy feline,” she muttered. “Perhaps I’m fated to expire right here.”

Well – there was one bright spot to discovering she was madder than ever. Without Radcliffe here to summon the police, she was free to poke around as she would. There wasn’t much to poke at, granted, but perhaps the desk held something of interest. _Could he have left t_ _he inquest report?_ Searching the drawers, however, revealed nothing but dirt – and in the case of the leftmost one, a pile of rat droppings. She slammed them closed and got on her hands and knees to examine underneath. More dust, and a scrap of old newsprint, but that was it. "Damn him," she mumbled, crawling back out. “I dodged being made an example of by Jack Splatter for this?”

_Did you?_ a voice that sounded just a bit too close to the Queen's for comfort commented. ( _She's dead, she's dead, she can't hurt you anymore Alice. . . ._ )  _What was it you said to Victor right before you split? "Jack's more interested in you than me?"_

Alice's insides flip-flopped. Oh God – while she was having fits in abandoned houses, Victor was running for his life from one of the East End's worst. She'd felt fairly confident in his escape before, what with that cat on their side, but now. . .was he all right? Had Splatter caught up with him after they’d separated? Or had he found someplace to hide? _He's smart, and he's gotten the best of Splatter twice. A third time shouldn't be that hard to manage_ _–_ _right?_ She swallowed down an anxious lump in her throat. _Damn it,_ _I hope I was right to trust you, cat. Otherwise we’re going to have words._

She got back to her feet and slapped her hands together to knock the dust off them. Well, she was certainly no help to her best friend up here. Time to head back outside and see if she really was at Radcliffe's – and, if so, if Victor had arrived. If not – he'd walked all over the East End for her sake. It was only fair that she do the same for him, if necessary. Leaving the office to continue rotting, she headed for the stairs.

Shredded wallpaper and bare gas fixtures greeted her, along with broken bottles and tattered clothing strewn across the floor. Alice kicked a shoe out of the way as she went along the hall. _At least someone's getting some use out of this place. . .though I hope I don't run into the human rat pack that's colonized it. They generally don't take kindly to intruders._ She paused at the end of the hall. _The stairs are in the right place. . .and t_ _hose marks on the floor_ _should be where the table for his most prized Ming vase sat. So I guess_ _this_ _is Radcliffe's_ _!_ _. . .which is only a tiny comfort when you consider he's just up and vanished on me._ _Obviously he's moved, but why not sell up? What on earth could possibly have encouraged him to just abandon the place?_

_"Let's pretend that I'm a hyena, and you're a bone!_ Give me the report!! _"_

Alice winced.  _Right. Having your not-exactly-stable client scream and throw ink at you just might do it. One of these days I'll learn to control my temper better. I just hope it's not too late for Mr. Bunny._

She carefully descended the stairs, hesitating at every creak. Time was that you could barely hear yourself walk, with the thick carpet covering the steps. And the light patches on the walls, where pictures had once hung, seemed like windows into another world. It was odd indeed to see the house in such disrepair. It gave her a bit of a chill, if she was honest. _Although maybe that's just the weather leaking in,_ she tried to convince herself as she made it back to the ground floor. _I wonder if my forecast was wrong and it has started raining. Wouldn't that be just perfect?_ She detoured toward the study and poked her head in. Dust motes drifted and twirled in the dim splashes of light leaking through the planks and grime. _Hmmm. . ._ _not as dark as it should be for rain, and_ _no telltale patter of water against glass. Small mercy. Let's get out of here and back to civilization._ Squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the front door – 

And found it as thickly boarded up as the windows. 

Alice stared, then ran her hand over the wood. It nibbled at her fingertips, rough splinters attempting to lodge themselves in her flesh. _What – how – I – I know that's to keep squatters out – though fat lot of good it's done –_ _but then – how did I get_ in _? I could have sworn I used this door_ _! T_ _hen again, I could have sworn this house was occupied when I first arrived._ She turned around, rubbing her arm in thought. _I must have used the old servants' and tradesmen's entrance round the back, on the lane. You'd think that would be blocked too, but. ._ _._ _._ Deciding not to contemplate the possibility that the entire house was just her imagination, she made her way around to the rear.

Sure enough, the back door was hanging wide open, revealing the little square behind – and a light snow falling from the sky. "Oh, _lovely_ ," Alice groused as she exited onto the white-dusted cobbles. “I'd say it's too early in the year for such miserable weather, but it's turned out to be such an awful day it only seems right at this point.” She glared at the slate gray clouds, then wiped a few flakes from her eyes. “Let's just get round the front and – and if no one's been living here at least a month, why is there a new ornament for the square?”

She squinted at the pedestal that had caught her eye, resting dead center among the old, hibernating trees dotting the cobbles. It wasn't really anything special – just your average plinth of plain stone. Mounted on its top was a statue that appeared to be made of brass, much too small for anyone to enjoy from a distance, and ringed by jagged chunks of glass. _Did someone put a snow globe out here? That's a weird object to desire in your back courtyard._ Curious, she moved forward to investigate further.

Only to be confronted with the melancholy face of the Mock Turtle, map in flipper as he pointed toward the horizon.

Alice’s stomach plunged straight into her feet. _No – oh no no no,_ she thought, backing up a couple of steps _. Don’t you dare, Wonderland, don’t you DARE_ – 

But it was too late. Reality had already come loose around her – hadn’t she been tricked into thinking she was talking to Radcliffe when she was in fact addressing empty air? And now, in the alley beyond the square (mysteriously snow-free), she could see mushrooms peeking out of the road, scorched black by a smoldering coat of Ruin. _Come, Alice,_ they seemed to beckon from the oozing puddles, their caps gently bobbing. _Time to pick up your Blade again. Time to see just what you’ve been missing while you swallowed pills and entertained orphans. Time to leave reality behind once more._

“No!” 

Alice stepped back again, eyes angry slits. “Not this time! You do _not_ get to yank me back to Wonderland whenever you please!" she snarled. "What happened when I actually _wanted_ to come and get this over with, hmm? If you have no regard for my feelings, why should I have any for yours? Besides which, I promised Victor I wouldn’t stir from this house until he arrived." She folded her arms tight across her chest and turned her head away. "Sit there and sizzle all you like. Wonderland can _rot_ for all I care!”

The earth beneath her feet shuddered, as if in pain. _“Is that really what you want, Alice?”_ a familiar voice purred. _“You seemed quite eager to rescue this world a month ago.”_

“A month ago I discovered I was working on getting myself killed while trying to save all of you,” Alice muttered, refusing to look in its direction. “A month ago I learned I was courting a return to Rutledge by indulging your whims. A month ago I scared my best friend in the entire world – in any world – out of his wits and indirectly led to him having to dodge death every time he leaves Houndsditch. Is Wonderland worth all that?”

“ _You tell me,”_ Cheshire replied. _“But if Wonderland rots, so do you. And while your best friend may not mind_ external _decay, I think the_ internal _kind will make him worry about you all the more.”_

. . .Damn the Cat, but he had a point. Alice glanced back at the mushrooms, glistening under their oily cover. The Ruin was clearly still infesting her mind. . .and Bumby’s therapy was not helping to combat it at all. How could it, with her stubborn unconscious fighting him at every turn? She bit her lip. Was her only hope to be rid of the infection donning her blue dress again? Was sanity only possible after a deep dive into the waters of madness? Her world was little more than a fractured mess at this point. . .was Wonderland better or worse than Radcliffe’s ever-changing house?

“ _Stop dithering, girl – you are a woman of action. The dogs of war are loose – time to raise some havoc!”_

Alice closed her eyes, doing her best to hold back a few shameful tears. “Forgive me, Victor,” she mumbled. “But – I really do think this is more important." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I’ll try my best to stay out of trouble. Please, _please_ do the same.” Then, adopting a stiff upper lip and her most confident stride, she left the square, following the mushrooms down the alley, around the corner –

And into the deepest reaches of Hell.

The change was terrifying in its abruptness. One moment, houses and offices with high chimneys and fancy cupolas loomed over her – the next, they were tumbling away into a swirling vortex the color of smoke and flame, shaken free from their foundations by the roar of the Infernal Train passing overhead. Baked brown earth replaced the cobbles beneath her feet, and the fading snow was overtaken by a rain of rocks. Alice scanned her new surroundings as she shifted into Wonderland form. The world here was a mass of tiny floating islands, all burnt and broken from the relentless run of the Train. The giant trees were stripped bare, reaching pitch-black branches to the unearthly sky; clusters of mushrooms dropped bits of ashen flesh from their caps, cooked to a crisp by the heat; and what appeared to be the abandoned shells of oversized snails still glowed faintly from embers caught in their spirals, scorched and – _And I think I preferred it when I thought the Vale had been knocked out the sky!_

It may as well have been – there was almost nothing left of the cheerful, sunny place that had welcomed her to Wonderland before. Part of Alice wanted to burst into tears – her poor, gorgeous Vale! – but a much larger part of her wanted to scream in rage. “This bloody Ruin!” she snarled, glaring as a fresh sheet of the wretched black goop came cascading down in the Infernal Train's wake. “It’s corrupting all of Wonderland!”

“Were you expecting something else?” a ubiquitous grin asked her. Moments later, the rest of Cheshire joined it. “Perhaps things only _look_ like they’ve gone to Hell.”

Alice turned the glare on him. “You’re not that good a liar, and I’m not that stupid,” she informed him. “I knew damn well I was walking into unpleasantness. But something a _bit_ less calamitous would have been welcome.”

The Cat continued grinning at her – not that she’d ever seen him do otherwise. If he ever lost his smile, he did so only in private. “This unmitigated disaster is _your_ doing – and it will get worse,” he told her, tail flicking from side to side. “Your train keeps a hellish schedule – you need to do likewise." He leaned forward, eyes burning yellow. "Get moving! Time waits for no one. The change has begun.”

"That is _not_ my train," Alice retorted. She wasn't certain of a lot anymore, but she knew that in her bones. Perhaps it had been built by Wonderlanders, but there was such an aura of _wrongness_ to the locomotive that she couldn’t accept it as her own. Cheshire could blame her for letting it run wild if he liked, but someone else was the driving force behind its construction. _But who?_ “And it is perfectly capable of terrifying me, Cat. You should find another job.”

"I think you'll find we lack many of the necessary vices of economy at the moment."

"You know what I mean!" In a softer voice, she added, “Is there really so little hope?” This did look like the end of all things, but. . .they'd recovered from such dire straits before. Was this Infernal Train, terrible as it was, really worse than the Queen of Hearts?

Cheshire flicked an ear. “There’s even less," he said, apparently unconcerned if the world fell apart around him. "And if fear paralyzes you, we’re lost.” He gestured with a paw, his smile now looking more like a smirk. “My recommendation? Do what your Victor wants you to so badly and take his name.”

And with that, he vanished, leaving Alice to gape at empty air. “What – I – you – _you’re_ on my arse to marry him now?!” she yelled as she attempted to recover her wits. “How does _that_ help Wonderland?!”

“You're not a dunce, girl, though you do a good impression – you can figure that out for yourself,” Cheshire’s disembodied voice commented. “But I said nothing about you becoming a _Van Dort_ – not yet, anyway.”

"You and your–" Alice started, then stopped as black puddles began oozing up from the dust around her, slowly coalescing into more mobile forms. "Oh, never mind," she mumbled, summoning her Blade and readying her Umbrella. She could worry about infuriating Cats making jokes at her expense later. _Right now, I have some oily arse to_ _boot_ _._

Vale of Doom

“. . .I know my memory's not the best, but I truly don’t recall Hatter and Hare’s tea table being that elaborate. Or shaped so much like a corkscrew. Or _floating_.”

Alice stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the twisted table revolve slowly in midair. Despite the fact that all its guests had abandoned it long ago, it still bore the remains of what had once been touted as an eternal teatime. The pristine tablecloth, shining teapots, and mismatched china stood out like a sore thumb against the webs of Ruin and hunks of rusty machinery circling it. "Shouldn't you be in Hatter's Domain?" Alice asked, hands on her hips. "At the very least, you think Hare would have dragged you off to Cranking Up & Pressing Down when he took it over. God knows that, whatever other changes forced upon him, he and his friends never lost their obsession with tea." She glanced around, noting the presence of teacups and milk jugs as big as her mixed in with the gears and pipes. "On the other hand, this _does_ resemble whatever might remain of the Crockery. . . . Are you the source of the Madcaps' weapons? "

The table simply continued to turn, a never-ending spiral of white amid the darkness. Alice sighed and straightened up. _Oh, I s_ _uppose it doesn’t really matter, what with the world flying apart around me_ _. The real question is, where do I_ _go from – hang on, what’s this?_

A single beam of sunlight had abruptly broken through the churning clouds overhead. It shot down with focused precision through the center of the table’s gentle whorl, highlighting another, smaller table underneath – 

And the teapot that sat upon it, just waiting to be picked up. Alice eyed it briefly, then moved forward in a cautious stop-start, ever alert for danger. The teapot glimmered as she neared, as if in invitation. It was of a curious design – made of rusty brown metal instead of porcelain, accented here and there with rings of silver. The spout curved out in a sideways S, much like an elephant's trunk, and flared comically large at the tip. On the side, covered by thick green glass, was a clock, set (of course) at six. As she leaned over it for closer examination, she spotted words etched into the lip of the lid. “‘The Mad Hatter Manufacturing, Inc. Patented January 27th, 1874.' I can't say I'm surprised. . .but what exactly is it you _do_ , Mr. Teapot?" she asked the erstwhile drinks container. "Surely you’re meant for more than pouring a cuppa. . . .”

And then she saw it, tucked into the curve of the handle: a trigger, like one might find on a gun. "Oh?" Her interest more than piqued now, she picked up the device. Something inside clanked, rolling from side to side. _Was_ it a gun of some sort? No, with a “barrel” that large, it was really more like a cannon. . . .

The wet squelch of pain arriving distracted her from her musings. Looking up, she found a large mob of Insidious Ruins popping up from the earth, toddling toward her with malicious intent. She butterflied a few paces back, then aimed her new toy at them. “Very kind of you to appear like this and let me test this thing out,” she commented, strafing back and forth so they couldn't get a lock on her. “If you could all bunch together a bit more? . . .Perfect! Now, as Father used to say, hold still–” She pressed down hard on the trigger “–and say ‘cheese!’”

The teapot shook in her hands, lid rattling dangerously as steam built up inside. Then, just when Alice was sure the damn thing was going to go pop and cost her a finger, _something_ came rocketing out of the spout, nearly knocking her on her keister. _Oh! Shades of the Blunderbuss there,_ she thought, managing to regain her balance. _Does it do as much damage?_ Training her eyes on the sky, she saw what looked like a bulging tea infuser sailing through the air, trailing hissing white mist. This mysterious projectile landed right in the center of the group of Ruins – 

And exploded, drenching the unfortunate beasts in a shower of hot green tea. The ones in the middle didn’t stand a chance against the boiling liquid – they immediately shrieked their last as their bodies dissolved. The others wailed in pain as they were splashed with whatever remained, scuttling away from the blast zone. Alice’s eyes lit up with malicious glee. _Oh yes –_ definitely _a cannon_ _!_ She whirled in the direction of the largest of the splinter groups and hit the trigger again.

Only to hear an annoyed “chock, chock” as the weapon sputtered. Alice frowned down at it, and noticed its clock now indicated noon. “Oh, it's a _gauge_. . .m ust need some time to cool down, then,” she mumbled, sending it away in favor of the Pepper Grinder for a moment and introducing another Ruin to its maker. “No matter – Hollow Yves will help with that, I’m sure.” She sliced and diced a couple that got too close, smacked another with the Hobby Horse, then resummoned the teapot. A quick check proved tea time had come around again, so Alice sent another infuser flying, smashing the remaining Ruins to bits. She grinned in smug satisfaction. “Oh Hatter – my _deepest_ apologies for not reacting appropriately to your death!”

A sudden growl alerted her to the fact that the fight wasn’t quite over. Keeping a firm grip on the Teapot Cannon, she turned to see – _oh no._

Oversized porcelain arms burst through the dirt, dragging up behind them a column of hissing black crowned with wheels and pipes. More arms slithered out of the rear of the beast, forming a quartet of steadying legs. The beast lay leechlike on the earth for a moment, before pushing itself vertical. A legion of blank white faces popped out, gaping at her from all over its trunk, before they were pushed back protectively under the ooze. _Damn it. . .so soon, Wonderland? Really? I'm not sure I'm fully healed from the last time!_

The Colossal Ruin (the same one she’d fought before? She'd been sure she'd broken all its gawking heads, but maybe the Infernal Train had healed it up somehow), however, seemed disinclined to delay their battle. It screamed rage at her from its enormous maw, cold fingers scratching at the air. Alice butterflied away as fast as she could, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the beast. “All right – just apologies for now, Hatter,” she corrected herself. “Deepest apologies as soon as your weapon proves itself capable of killing one of these!”

***

"Hiyah! Hiyah!"

"Hiyah yourself, you idiot!" Alice snapped, deflecting the tines of the oversized fork with her Blade. "You are aware you're attacking the woman trying to make the world right again?"

The Madcap didn't seem to care, continuing his attempts to skewer her on his giant cutlery. Alice dodged his next stab, then managed to circle around to his left and slash at his neck. One two, one two, and through and through – and the miniaturized spawn of Hatter fell over, head cleaved from his shoulders. "Why is it I can never get any _useful_ allies?" Alice grumbled, watching the body crumble away. "A Madcap or two would at least be handy as a distraction for all these Ruins – and if I could recruit an Eyepot! Even those bloody flying Drifting wouldn't stand a chance."

But such things were not to be – it seemed every creature in Wonderland, native or foreign, was more focused on ending her than each other. Not that she'd seen many natives. This Madcap, along with his two friends and their pet Eyepot, had been the only non-oozing faces she’d come across since Cheshire had done his usual runner. Well, all right, there was also Caterpillar, but she hadn't actually _seen_ him. She'd merely heard his voice, trapped in festering hookahs lying forgotten around the landscape. And for all she knew, those were just a kind of recording,  the smoke functioning much the same way as a wax cylinder in a player piano. (Sure, he'd responded to her comments, but the insect _was_ the local oracle.)  Until he bothered to show his face, she wasn't going to count him. Everything else, flora and fauna alike, was gone, burned away by the legions of Ruin patrolling and infecting the land. _I'll give you that you were right the last time we spoke, you squishy layabout_ _,_ she thought as she peppered and teaed the latest battalion to show their ugly faces. _This change is most definitely not for the better._ _But_ _I refuse to believe this was an inevitable consequence of time. Someone seeks nothing less than my Wonderland's total destruction, and that someone is behind the Train._ _I've got to catch up with it, and soon_ _. It’s the only way to save Wonderland._ She glanced back at the mixed-up shards of the Vale and Hatter's Domain behind her, hanging helplessly in mid-air. _Whatever’s left of it._

She finished off the last of the Ruins – God, it was _fun_ to make the Drifting ones pop! The Teapot Cannon earned its keep just for that – then jumped and floated her way to the next useful ledge. Half her own face met her there with an accusing stare, the remaining eye weeping dried Ruin down the battered stone arm. "At least it's not feeding one of those boiling rivers of the stuff," Alice muttered. "Or worse, assaulting me with Slithering, like the last time we met." She kicked away a hunk of carved hair and turned around.

Behind her sat the platform for the Looking-Glass Line she'd come across over a month before. The passage of time had not been kind to it – it was a full-on wreck now, burnt and rusted and just barely hanging together. Alice got the feeling it would collapse if she breathed on it too hard. Scattered around it were a few metal crates, courtesy of the fallen factories of Hare and Dormy – and, resting on the train station stairs, a crystalline butterfly. _Oh good_ _!_ Alice quickly smashed the containers for their bounty, then approached the familiar creature. _I could use a_ _friendly face_ _right_ _about_ _now. A gentleman as always, Victor_ _._ Her fingers brushed the icy glass – the world around her warped – and then – 

_Rap-rap-rap. “Victor? It’s time for tea.”_

_No reply. "Victor?" Alice knocked again. "You don't want to be late for table. That's another one of Dr. Bumby's famous lectures. Besides, I haven't seen you all day."_

_Again, nothing but silence. With a frustrated huff, Alice tried the knob. The door swung open, revealing Victor sitting on his bed, his back to her, apparently doing nothing more important than staring at the wall. "Look, I know I'm not one to give anyone a hard time over daydreaming," she started, approaching him, "but I'd like to get an answer when I–"_

_She stopped as his face came into view. Her friend looked the very definition of the word “haggard.” His eyes were dull, staring blankly off into space, and the dark circles around them were more prominent than ever. His hair was mussed, and his clothes badly wrinkled, sagging from his absurdly thin frame. And he was sitting so slumped over his chest was almost touching his knees, as if he was being crushed under some great weight. Not a very pretty picture. “Are you all right?” she asked, irritation forgotten._

_Victor finally seemed to notice her. “Oh, hello, Alice,” he mumbled. Even his voice sounded worn out – like it had simply given up on life. “What is it?”_

“ _It’s tea time, if you want any. . .are you sick?” Alice pressed a hand against his forehead. The skin was cool.“You look a mess.”_

“ _I know,” he sighed, shuffling his scuffed shoes against the floor. “I’m sorry, I just – this morning, looking in the mirror, I got to thinking, and. . .I just never got around to making myself look presentable, I’m afraid.”_

“ _Thinking about what?” Alice asked._ What ghastly topic could have reduced him to this state? Not even last fortnight's session managed that.

“ _About everything that’s happened to me. . .and about getting older.”_ _Victor_ _resumed staring at the wall_ _, as if hoping to find the secrets of life encoded in the peeling paper_ _. “_ _I'm going to be twenty years old soon, Alice. Twenty. Do you know, most men that age in_ _my_ _village are either_ _married or just about to be? One or two_ _might even have a baby on the way._ _That was going to be my life as well_ _._ _I was going to_ _have a wife_ _, start working officially in Father's business, and – well. Be just like everyone else._ _Instead_ _look at me. Banished from everything I've ever known. S_ _tuck in a place meant for_ children _. Being treated like some sort of invalid who can’t possibly know what’s best for himself.” He let out a deep, weary sigh._ _ **“Some days it feels like my entire world’s fallen apart on me. Like I’ll never have a ‘normal’ life aga–”**_

_He stopped short_ _, eyes flicking toward her as he realized who he was talking to._ _**“Oh – Alice, I’m s-so sorry!”** _ _he cried, snapping up straight_ _and_ _grabbing his tie._ _**“I d-didn’t mean to suggest my problems are – do forgive me.”** _

Alice extended her hand to touch Victor’s shoulder, the words, “It’s fine,” on her lips, but the moment her fingers made contact, he abruptly dissolved, like morning mist on a summer's day. His room followed immediately after, throwing her back into the Vale of Doom. "So much for a pleasant trip back in time," she mumbled, dropping her arm. "I was so hoping for something happy too. What's the point of showing me depressing things when I'm already in such a horrible–"

_"And I promise I won't stir from Radcliffe's house until you get there!"_

". . .Guilt was supposed to stop creeping up and biting me in the behind when the Jabberwock died."

Saying that didn't make things any better, of course. Alice bit her lip as she turned her gaze toward the whirling vortex in the sky. She'd punch anyone who suggested that she hadn't suffered more than her fair share in the short twenty years she'd been alive. She'd watched her entire childhood go up in flames, the screams of her family echoing in her ears. She'd lain near-catatonic for a decade locked in Rutledge Asylum, suffering the "care" of sadists and fools. She'd fought free of her madness and bedlam's walls, only to discover her hallucinations would not be conquered so easily. She'd struggled and scraped to survive on the outside, unable to tear what was rightfully hers from the sticky fingers of the family lawyer. She'd given therapy another chance, desperate for relief, only to find either her doctor a dunce or her mind too stubborn to allow itself to be cured. And now, here she was, watching one of the last good things in her life be torn to shreds by that horrible Train. Oh yes, she was no stranger to pain. Her _life_ was pain.

But then again – so was Victor’s. At least she'd had the pleasure of eight happy years with parents and a sister who loved her. Victor's sole source of childhood companionship had appeared to be his dog. And yes, pets were wonderful (she couldn't think ill of Dinah, even if everyone did blame the cat for the fire), but even the sweetest-tempered mutt couldn't fully make up for having to deal with parents more concerned with social-climbing than raising their son. He'd grown up rich, comfortable, and achingly lonely. He'd been engaged to a woman sight-unseen and told he just had to deal with it. And then he'd not only fallen hard and fast (much too fast) for his intended, but another woman as well, all in less than two days – only to abruptly lose them forever at the end of it all. He’d been ostracized by his entire village – called evil and damned – for a delusion that, though strange, seemed relatively harmless, even fun, to her. He’d been exiled from his home, forced into the care of someone he despised, all because no one would accept him wanting to honor, even in private, the memory of the corpse bride. He'd struggled through his new world, dodging nasty looks and rumors, children with a wicked sense of humor, and a doctor who simply wouldn't taken no for an answer. He'd gotten on the bad side of the most dangerous pimp in the city, and it was probably only a matter of time before he paid in blood.

And the one friend he'd made had turned out to be a lunatic who drove him mad with worry every time her brain decided reality was too boring to deal with. A friend he was too embarrassed to have a whinge to about his problems for fear of hurting her feelings. A friend who was only too happy to complain about how one of the worst moments of his life brought _her_ down when she didn't even know if he was – if he – 

She covered her face with her hands. "Why do you put up with me, Victor?" she mumbled. "Why do you insist on being my friend? I only bring pain and misery to those around me." She spread her arms wide. “Exhibit A, not that you can see it. Are you back to wandering all over the city, trying your best to find me? Or are you holed up back at Houndsditch, angry that I broke my promise?” She blinked back a sudden damp in her eyes. “Or – or did Jack Splatter catch you at last, and I – I won't know until the funeral's already come and gone?”

Lightning flashed from the swirling clouds, followed by a growl of thunder. Suddenly, despair was replaced with rage. "Damn you!" she screamed at the sky. "Haven't I lost enough people already? What's the point of tracking down the Train if seeing him in his coffin is likely to break me yet _again_?! Do you really want me to have _no one_ but the fevered imaginings of my own mind?!"

The thunder roared back at her. Alice whirled and threw her Vorpal Blade into the remains of her egotistical bust, then ran forward like the madwoman she was, launching herself into the next gust of hissing vapor. "You'd better give me something to kill soon," she growled.

Fortunately, the Vale of Doom was more than happy to present her with fresh targets. Slithering Ruin, Insidious Ruin, Madcaps, Drifting Ruin – and at the end of a long work-around through a  sideways  chunk of Cranking Up & Pressing Down, even a new Colossal Ruin. Alice faced it with a furious joy in her heart, smashing the tiny faces dotting its body while screaming challenges. "Come and get me, if you think you're strong enough! I know your tricks now, you monstrous slug! You and your Train can go straight! To! Hell!"

The Colossal Ruin shrieked, bits of flaming porcelain falling off its sides. Then it squirmed and writhed, shifting its crown of machinery forward as a final , larger  white mask emerged from the muck above it. The wheels spun, steam hissed, and fire exploded from the pipes now serving as its upper teeth. Before, when Alice had seen that, she'd cried out in terror and run wildly in circles until it had exhausted its fuel and slumped down for the kill. Now, though, the sight of this beast trying to use her greatest fear against her simply fueled her rage. " _Never again!_ "

The tea infuser flew, and the Ruin dropped forward, stunned. Alice darted forward in a flurry of blue wings, the Blade already in her hand. One-two-three-four-five – change it up for a few swings of the Hobby Horse – six-seven – another blast of tea to keep it down – eight-nine-ten – 

The shatter of broken china filled the air, and the Ruin flailed helplessly at the air before collapsing onto its side. Shortly after, the gigantic body melted into a harmless puddle, golden teeth and metaessence raining down in reward. Alice snatched it all up, nearly as red as the glittering roses from the exertion. "See? See?! Whatever you throw at me! I'll defeat it! I will _not_ be conquered!" 

The smell of old tobacco caught her nose. A quick jog through the tunnel the Colossal Ruin had haunted brought her to yet another moldering hookah. Alice broke through the brittle Ruin shell covering it and took a  hard whiff from the pipe. "And what do  _you_ have to say for yourself?" she demanded.

“ _You honestly think that we would keep it from you if Victor was in true peril?”_

Alice's rage stuttered and took a step back. Caterpillar actually sounded _hurt_ by that. "What am I supposed to believe?" she asked, sucking in a few deep breaths to clear the smoke from her sinuses. "You dragged me off at the precise moment I should have been going to look for him."

_"It was necessary,"_ Caterpillar replied.  _"Or don't you see the destruction around you?"_

"I see it fine. But he's risking destruction too. You're my own personal soothsayer – surely you know what will happen if Jack Splatter catches him."

_"Yes – but first, he must catch him,"_ Caterpillar said in that faux-wise tone that had always gotten up her nose.  _"If you hadn't been sure of his escape, no amount of dragging could have brought you here. And if you had resisted, the state of your consciousness would hardly be worth mentioning. And_ that _would have hurt the both of you. If I may paraphrase Cheshire, Victor would rather you battle your demons than fall to them."_

Alice sighed, the worst of her anger draining away. "Right. I know. But you can't stop me from worrying."

_"I wouldn't dream of it. It's proof that you've already learned that the world does_ not _revolve around you. But your journey has only just begun! Consider the cause of all this chaos, Alice! Then come and join me."_

The last wisps of white sailed off into the sky. Alice nodded, running the back of her hand across her forehead. " Right. The sooner I do as you ask, the sooner I can get home and apologize," she mumbled. "I'll be right there, you smushy layabout. And you'd better have more for me than platitudes."

***

". . .First off, when you say 'Come and join me' in such a portentous tone, you shouldn't be holed up on the island just ahead. Secondly, hiding out in the one spot the Ruin hasn't found yet makes you a hypocrite of some sort, I'm sure of it. Even Cheshire deigns to venture into danger briefly to speak with me."

"If you can desire to escape the Train, so can I," Caterpillar retorted from the tiny brass temple atop the miniature mountain before her. "And while a journey of a thousand miles may start with a single step, I doubt you actually wanted to _go_ a thousand miles just to find me."

"It feels like I have," Alice muttered, leaning back on her heels as she crouched in the last remaining patch of green in the Vale. Around her, the rest of the world was a screaming maelstrom, earth and stone being sucked into the churning whirlpool that dominated the sky. But here, it was quiet and still. Maybe the high spire of rock at their left, with Caterpillar's ever-present hookah smoke curling up it, served as a storm break of sorts. Or perhaps the Train simply hadn't passed close enough yet to swallow it up in black oil. Whatever the reason, it was heartening to see that there was a piece of her beloved Wonderland that hadn’t yet been destroyed. The emerald moss, the little blue waterfall, even Caterpillar's retreat of rough-hewn jade and cleverly-shaped china . .it all gave her hope that, one day, all the Vale could look like this again. _And given the madness I've just had to pass through, I need all the hope I can get._ "I thought you were in charge of the Mushroom of Life," she added, trailing her fingers through the little lake that surrounded them.

"This is not the first upheaval Wonderland has suffered as of late," Caterpillar replied. "The Woods where that grew exists only in your memory now – and a very poor memory it is too."

"Now look here, I've been doing my best to find every shining bauble Wonderland leaves for me," Alice said, jabbing her finger at the temple roof.

"Even so, you're not the girl you were in the asylum. I wish we could say we were solely the better for it." Another wisp of sweet-smelling smoke drifted out of the temple windows. "But onto more immediate business. You are familiar with the saying that smoking stunts your growth?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Adults assault children with that adage – usually while they’ve got a pipe stuck in their mouths.” Not that she’d ever been interested in smoking anyway. The cigars favored by some of Papa’s colleagues had always smelled horrible to her, and by Lizzie’s own admission, cigarettes were _“no fun at all.”_ And any mild intrigue the pipe might have held for her had been kicked out of her mind by Victor's stories of Mayhew and his constant choking cough. _Not for me –_ _well, except when I'm forced to puff on hookahs for directions_ _,_ she amended. _Speaking of which –_ “I see you’ve kept the best tobacco for yourself, incidentally. The stuff you made me suck down was rancid.”

“If you hadn’t waited a month to return and finish what you started, it might have been fresh,” Caterpillar shot back. “As it is, I won’t ask you to inhale this.” Rings of wispy white began flowing from the temple roof, encircling her head and moving downward. “Just let the smoke envelop you.”

Alice watched the rings slide down her body, turning from halos to necklaces to belts to anklets before dissipating just in time for the next one to arrive. For a moment, she couldn't work out the purpose of their slow descent – then she happened to glance up at the "mountain" again. Slowly but surely it was getting taller. “I can shrink on my own now, you know,” she said, frowning. “Can’t we talk while I’m at my right proper–”

_WHOOOORRRRRR!_

A massive shadow fell over the grove as the Train thundered through again, spreading another layer of Ruin across the Land. Alice shuddered. “Never mind. Continue as planned.” Maybe if she was the size of an ant, she wouldn't have to deal with more of those creepy slimes for a while.

Down, down, down – and then, the world was nothing but white as the smoke swallowed her up in a cloud. Alice coughed and shut her eyes tightly, waiting for the fog to pass. When she opened them again, she found herself standing on a jade island in the middle of the tiny lake – although at her new size, it could now only be described as the vastest of oceans. Even the purple pool in the Vale of old hadn't stretched that large when she'd gained the ability to halve her height. Curious, Alice hiccuped, and found the world lavender-tinted and even larger than before. "Shrinking while shrunk – typical Wonderland," she said fondly, popping back to her new "regular" size.

She turned her gaze to the landscape, wondering what challenges lay ahead. Surrounding her was a whole archipelago of jade and stone, decorated with pots and paper balloons, and all clustered around the base of the mountain. Carved bridges and floating mahjong tiles provided paths from one isle to the next, while smoking incense pots and beautifully-painted vases jutted out of the green rock before her, sharing space with half-formed dragons, flowers, and fans. The sky above was calmer than the Vale of Doom's, but still a dismal gray. Chinese characters fell from it in torrents of black and red, spelling out stories Alice hadn't a hope of deciphering. And high above it all, only visible if you squinted hard, was the rocky crag that made up the top of the mountain, shrouded in storm clouds and smoke. “You couldn’t put me at the top, Caterpillar? Of course you couldn’t,” Alice answered herself. “It wouldn’t be Wonderland if I didn’t have to do things the hard way.” 

One last thing to check before she started. A quick glance down – and yes, just as she'd suspected. Bright blue had been traded for deep navy this time, printed with multicolored flowers and butterflies. As befitted her current location, the new dress fastened in a wrap-around style like a kimono, with a large pink sash to hold it closed. Matching pink wrist guards, a narrow porcelain-like apron, and Hollow Ives in the form of a green oni mask completed the look. “At least you gave me a pretty gown. Would have preferred a katana to go with it, but. . . .”

Well, she could only work with what she had. If she had to climb this stupid piece of rock to get a straight answer out of her Oracle, she would. As she'd said before, she would not be conquered, not even by a friend. She jumped to the nearest mahjong tile and began planning her route, wondering just how rude it would be to greet Caterpillar with a Hobby Horse straight to his smug face.


	14. Not A Child (Ignore The Toy)

October 16th, 1875

Threadneedle Street, London’s West End, England

12:28 P.M.

“Here you are, sir! Threadneedle Street!”

Victor, in the middle of a particularly tight tie-twisting, sighed in relief. “At last. . .thank you very much,” he said, hopping out of the cab. "How much do I owe you?"

"Ain't a regular route, so we'll go by time, which is two shillings," the cabbie told him, leaning down to receive his money.

Victor handed him three. "For getting me here so quickly," he said with a small smile. “Have a good day now.”

“Oh, you too, sir, you too!” the cabbie said, grinning as he stuffed fare and tip into the inner pocket of his jacket. He cracked the reins. “Come on, Flutter, back to Charing Cross! Lots of other people looking to go places!”

Flutter tossed her mane and trotted off down the street. Victor watched them go, then turned around, looking up and down the rows of grand houses. It was funny to think that Threadneedle wasn’t particularly far from where the West End of London bumped up against the East. Already it seemed like another world – men in fine suits and women in tailored dresses; houses sporting sparking windows and well-kept flower boxes; and a distinct lack of trash on the streets. This was the London he'd been familiar with as a boy, when Mother had dragged him and Father into the city to be a part of the Season. _She must wish_ _Houndsditch was located in a neighborhood like this,_ he thought as he started along the sidewalk. _I can’t say I blame her. . .heh, I almost wish I had her here with me. She’d_ _certainly keep_ _Radcliffe busy while_ _Alice and I searched for_ _Mr. Bunny_ _._ _Talk the poor man’s ear off, no doubt. He’d probably give us the toy just so as he wouldn’t have to listen to her anymore_ _!_ _Then again, maybe they’d get on._ _Judging by Alice's stories, he and Mother are peas in a pod, at least when it comes to collecting fancy things to show off._ _And she’s said before he likes rich clients._ One hand stroked his chin. _I wonder. . ._ _if I promised to speak to my parents on his behalf, might that be a fair trade for her rabbit?_ _It's worth a try, anyway_ _. . ._ _so long as Alice hasn't soaked him in ink again._

Thinking that finally convinced him to do something he hadn't particularly wanted to do – check the time. He flipped open his pocketwatch, then grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. _Oh God, I'm at least an hour late. . ._ _. Damn you Jack Splatter!_ _If you hadn't been such a persistent son of a–_ He sighed heavily. _And that 'Cheshire Cat' of course ran off once the coast was clear rather than help me any further. At least that cab got me here quicker than walking – and saved me from having to look over my shoulder every five minutes._ _But if I starting taking them everywhere, I'll exhaust what little savings I have – and I need them all if I'm to pay Splatter in anything but my own flesh_ _._ _Ugh, yet another problem to solve_ _. . . ._

He examined each house he passed, searching for any indication that it was the one he wanted. Finally, at the end of the road, he came upon a large dark townhouse ringed by a high iron fence, as seemed to be the custom in London. A weathered sign attached to said fence proclaimed it to be the residence of “Wilton J. Radcliffe, LL. B – Soliciter?” Victor sniggered. "That can't be helpful to his reputation." Shaking his head that such a large error could have gone unnoticed, he pushed open the gate and made his way up to the front door. 

A speaker box mounted on the frame immediately caught his eye. Well, that was the very latest, wasn’t it – being able to greet your guests from the comfort of your own quarters? _Mother would be terribly jealous if she knew. Hopefully Alice has already told him to expect me._ He knocked twice, as loud as he could. “Excuse me?”

No answer. Victor knocked again. “Mr. Radcliffe? Sir?”

“You’re wasting your time there, guv’nor.”

Victor blinked and turned his head. One of the city’s various workmen was standing behind him at the gate, albeit in a cleaner shirt than was usual of his kind. “Radcliffe buggered off about a month ago,” he continued. “Said he was sick of the city and had to get away. I helped him move out all that Chinese and Japanese junk he owns. Insisted it was priceless – peh.” The man spat. “Just means it’s too posh to actually use.”

“Yes, I know,” Victor said on automatic as his mind scrambled to process this new information. “I'm sorry, you said he _left_?”

“Yup – off to the country, only I heard that the house ain't quite finished, so he’s stuck up in one of them fancy hotels for now.” The man smirked and snapped a suspender. “Serves him right for treating me and Larry like common working nags. You one of his clients?”

Well, didn't this just figure. “No, actually,” Victor said, shaking his head. “My friend Alice – _Alice!_ ”

He whirled in a circle, his guts leaping into his throat. There was no sign of her anywhere. He grabbed the door handle and started yanking with all his might. "Alice! Alice!"

“Ain’t gettin’ in that way – he had us board it up,” the man informed him, arching a thick eyebrow. “Keep out the ‘riff-raff.’ What’s got you in such a snit?”

“She’s supposed to be here!” Victor cried, knowing it would make no sense to the stranger and not caring. “She promised she wouldn’t stir from this place until I arrived! If she's not here, then – I don't – she might – Alice!” He gave the door a kick, which only succeeded in making his foot sore. "Is there any other way inside? A – a window he might have neglected?"

"Uh – we left the back door clear so we could get out after all was said 'n done. . .don't know if Larry ever bothered to block it up," the man admitted, frowning at him. "But why would this 'Alice' of yours – hey, I'm askin' you somethin'!"

Victor didn't pay him any mind, darting around to the rear of the house. There wasn't much to it – just a brick square dotted with sickly-looking trees, leading off into a little lane between what looked like some offices. He spun around again, searching for any clue to his belov – _best friend’s_ whereabouts. _One of these days I'll break that habit. . . ._

No hints presented themselves in the square itself – but as he finished his mad twirling, he saw that the back door was not only open, but hanging wide. Victor stumbled to a stop and flung himself inside. “Alice? Are you here?”

Musty silence greeted him. Victor ventured a little farther into the narrow hallway, coughing slightly as his feet stirred up dust. The house was in a miserable state – wallpaper hanging off in strips, gas fixtures jutting out in bare pipes, and aged boards covering anything that even hinted that it might open up to the outside. Victor pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed into it. "You'd think this place had been abandoned for a year, not a month." 

His foot thunked against something, and he looked down to see a bottle rolling away from him, picking up a thin layer of grime from the gray coating the floor. Victor wrinkled his nose. The dirt was thick and clingy – already his shoes looked like he hadn't polished them in a fortnight. Glancing behind him revealed his footprints shadowing him into the house –

Mixed and muddled with a set that looked suspiciously similar to Alice's shoes.

Hope flared up anew in his heart as he dropped to his knees to better examine the prints. They were badly smudged, but he could trace them going down the hall and around the bend. _So maybe she is still here?_ _I hope she hasn't hurt herself. . . ._ Crossing his fingers for luck, Victor followed the trail.

Straight into an elderly man holding half a bottle.

The pair bounced off each other in their surprise. The squatter recovered first, swinging his makeshift weapon in front of him protectively. "Here now, fuckin' cock, what're ya doin' here?" he slurred, breath reeking of whiskey.

Victor held up his hands placatingly. It wouldn't do to escape Jack Splatter only to be stuck by a random homeless person. "I'm not with the police! I'm just looking for someone."

"Suuuuure. You ain't gonna have my stash! Buy yer own!" the man snapped, the jagged edge of the bottle tracing figure eights in the air as he swayed. "I found thish place fair and shquare. Mine!"

"I'm not interested in your 'stash,' I promise," Victor said, faintly nauseated. "Just tell me – have you seen a young lady? Dark hair to her shoulders, bright green eyes, wearing a black-and-white dress?" He gulped. "P-possibly talking to thin air?"

"Lady?" The man somehow managed to stand still for a moment as he thought. "Nah, ain't seen no lady. . . ." A lecherous smile broke through the massive bush of his beard. "Wish I had, though. Been ages shince I afford a bird."

" _She is not a bloody prostitute!_ " 

The squatter stumbled backward,  hitting the wall in an explosion of dust. Something living in the wainscoting squeaked and ran away. Victor closed his eyes as he mastered his emotions. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm a little tense." He rubbed his face before looking at the man again. "I just want leave to look around the house for a bit. I'll be out of your hair in less than five minutes, I'm sure."

The squatter nodded, then darted into one of the rooms, slamming the door closed behind him. Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, guilt flooding him. Ugh, what was he doing? Shouting at Nurse Witless was one thing – she was a genuinely rotten person. But this fellow – he was just trying to survive in the only way he knew how.  _I just wish not every man I asked about her would comment about how they'd love to get up her skirt,_ he thought, gritting his teeth.  _Everyone here is obsessed with either – 'relations,' violence, or both at once. And I'm turning into one of them, if that was any indication. I mustn't let my temper get so short. The last thing I need is more people trying to turn me into a Lovett meat pie._ Dropping a sixpence by the man's door in apology, he turned into the main hall and scanned the floor, hopping against hope that the squatter had simply missed his friend.

But no – one look at the dust proved his moment of optimism had been misguided. While the homeless man's own unsteady feet muddied the trails a bit, there were clearly _two_ sets of Alice prints on the boards – one heading into the house, and one heading out. They crisscrossed at a couple of spots, resulting in the smudged tracks he’d followed inside. _Oh, for – Alice, you_ promised _. . . ._

Still, this was his best clue for figuring out what had happened while he’d been busy avoiding Splatter and flagging down his cab. Victor walked along the set that led deeper into the house, preparing himself for the worst. Down the hall – a large muddle of prints heading to and from the front door – up the stairs – a brief pause on the landing – up again – and then down the second-floor hall straight to what Victor assumed from the abandoned desk would have been Radcliffe's office. Here the interior tracks terminated in a huge clear blotch on the floor, as if their owner had abruptly decided the boards were the perfect place for a nap. _Suppose that could have been left by the man downstairs. . .but I shouldn't try to fool myself. She came inside, made a search, was probably overwhelmed by Radcliffe having vanished so completely, fainted – and then her hallucinations got the better of her once more, and off she went again._ "Bloody–"

Vile words picked up through months of wandering through Whitechapel markets started piling up on his lips. Victor choked them back and instead relieved his feelings by kicking over a nearby stack of books. _This_ would _happen! I should have never let her out of my sight! She's probably completely forgotten that I nearly – no, no, stop that. It's not really her fault, you know that. She held out the best she could – she made it here, didn't she?_ Splatter's _the one to blame, jumping on us like that and insisting on involving her. . .or that damned cat! If I'd gone my own way, I might have found a hiding spot closer to here and maybe been able to catch her! But no, I had to trust the judgment of a half-starved alley creature. . .ugh. I suppose I should be grateful she's at least wandering the West End this time, but that still means I have no idea where she is!_

“Come on, swell, you can’t leave me in the dark like this!”

Victor started. The workman was standing in the doorway behind him, heavy brow creased in puzzlement. “If you ain’t one of Radcliffe’s clients, what do you care that he’s done a runner?” he added. “You obviously ain't lookin' to rob the place. . .and who’s Alice?”

“Alice Liddell,” Victor explained, leaning heavily on the desk. It was unlikely that this fellow had any new information to offer him, but – well, he was here, and it was worth a try. “ _She’s_ his client, and my best friend. We were supposed to meet here to talk with him about her inheritance.”

“Ooooh – well, you was out of luck from the start,” the workman said with a laugh. “It was the mad Liddell girl who sent him running!” He grinned at Victor’s stony expression. “Get it? Mad Liddell girl – ‘cause it sounds like–”

“I get it,” Victor said flatly.

The man cocked his head. “No sense of humor? Thought that would be necessary for dealin' with that looney." He smirked. "You know nobody's been able to pry open those drawers yet. Startin' to think something's wrong with her down there.”

“I have no bloody interest in her drawers!” Victor yelled, hands balling up into fists. "And if you're one of those rotten bastards who have been trying to 'pry them open–"

"Easy!" the workman cried, holding up a hand. "Ain't my type at all! Prefer a nice blonde meself. . .you've got it all boilin' under the surface, don't you?"

"Sorry, sorry," Victor muttered, making himself relax. “It's been a bad day, and I just need someone to shout at, I guess. Ooooh. . .what if she's gone for another week? Or even longer? She nearly got herself k-killed the last time this happened! And of course I once again have no idea where she’s gone and Radcliffe’s not around to ask and I won’t be able to go looking for her properly because Jack Splatter’s out for my blood!”

“Jack Splat – hang on, _you’re_ the nob who nailed him?” the workman said, raising an eyebrow.

“It was a lucky punch! Not that he cares about that when he’s threatening to remove the fist that did it!” Victor dropped his head into his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. “Oh, and now I get to go back to Houndsditch and tell Dr. Bumby that she’s gone again, no less. The man is going to flay me alive. Ugh. . . .” He plopped down on the desk, massaging his temples. "I must have used up all my luck for the year on my father's balking at 'radical treatments.' I would have rather taken pills and endured a therapy session every day than have _this_ happen. What am I going to do. . . ."

There was silence for a long moment. Then, suddenly: “I think Radcliffe’s holed up in the Langham, if it helps.”

Victor lifted his head. “What?”

“The Langham Hotel. I hear it’s posher than posh – definitely the sort of place that old tit would want to stay,” the workman elaborated, rubbing his neck. “I got no idea where your looney bird flew off to, but maybe he knows something. ‘Specially if she’s a client.”

That seemed extremely unlikely – but then again, what else could he do? And if he was in the city still, maybe by some sheer stroke of luck she'd wandered by his rooms. You never knew. “Thank you. That’s – that’s very kind of you,” Victor said, trying not to let his confusion show too much.

The man smirked. “Eh, I got no love left for Radcliffe, not after the way he treated me and Larry. And I’ve bumped into that Dr. Bumby too – man’s a wanker. Can’t believe they let him around children.”

Victor laughed despite his mood. “Me either,” he admitted. “His 'miracle cures' seem more like bullying and badgering to me. I’m just used to being one of ‘the enemy’ myself.”

“I ain’t getting on the bad side of anyone who can throw a punch that knocks Jack Splatter on his arse, even if it only happens once in a blue moon,” was the workman’s pragmatic reply. Then he rubbed his fingers against his palm. “Not to say I wouldn’t appreciate thru'pence or so in compensation for my generosity. . . .”

Victor chuckled, extracting his wallet. “Trust me, I’ve been living in Whitechapel for half a year,” he said, locating a shilling coin and tossing it over. “I know better than not to offer. But thank you very much.”

“Yer welcome,” the man said, eyes lighting up as he saw his fee. “Now why don’t we get out of here before some bobby notices us and thinks we're buzzin' or bug huntin'?”

“Good idea. Though ironically I have an interest in catching actual insects. Butterflies mostly.”

"Ain't gonna find any of them here. Come on, before we do end up hunting the bug hidin' downstairs."

"Right." Victor sighed as he followed the workman back out. _T_ _his day just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? Still, maybe, just maybe, Radcliffe will know something. And if not – perhaps I can at least figure out what he’s done with her rabbit. I don’t trust_ any _cat to lead either of us to the right place anymore._

***

It took another two shillings and sixpence, plus a race to get to the cab first against some fellow in a bowler hat (Victor won handily with his long legs), but eventually Victor found himself in front of the Langham. The hotel rose like a storybook castle out of the tangle of streets that made up the great city, a sunny yellow against the dull stone and brick around it. _And it's been nine years since I've seen it last,_ Victor thought, staring up at the elegant arches of the front entrance. _Doesn't look like it's changed a bit. Does the Prince of Wales still come by from time to time, I wonder?_ He chuckled. _I can hear Mother now. . . . "William, a member of the_ royal family _opened the place up! We_ have _to stay there for a night or two! It's posher than posh! How better to show all those 'landed gentry' that we're just as good as they are?" It was one of our nicer visits, though, I'll give her that. Radcliffe couldn't have chosen a better hotel. Now to hope that they'll let me in again. . . ._ He took a moment to make himself presentable, brushing the dust off his suit and making sure his tie lay flat. Then, doing his best to look every inch the young gentleman from good money, he headed inside. 

One of the doormen promptly stepped in front of him. "And how may I help, sir?" he asked, tone deferential but eyes faintly suspicious.

"I'm looking for Mr. Radcliffe, " Victor replied, standing a little taller.  _Confidence, confidence. Exude it. Don't let them bully you. They're nothing compared to Splatter._ "It's a matter of great urgency concerning one of his clients."

The doorman frowned. "Which client would that be, sir?"

"Alice Liddell. I don't suppose you've seen her?" Victor added, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"No, sir, definitely not," the doorman said, shaking his head. "Just a moment, please."

He turned and headed over to the front desk. Victor waited by the doors, knotting and unknotting his hands, as the doorman and the clerk whispered to each other. Then the clerk waved him over. "You say it's urgent?" the man said, his expression suggesting he didn't actually care that much.

"It could be life or death, sir," Victor replied, trying not to let his mind linger on that last word. 

The clerk hummed, then pointed him to the stairs. "Mr. Radcliffe is on the  third floor, in  room 333\. Please keep things brief."

Victor grinned. Past the first hurdle! "Thank you, sir," he said, and headed straight up.

It was a quick climb to the third floor – the hotel was fairly quiet at this time of day. Victor proceeded down the hall, counting down the numbers until he reached Radcliffe's door. _Well – let’s try this again,_ he thought, swallowing down a fresh jolt of nervousness as he knocked. _Please be in, please be in. . . ._

A click, a creak, and a fat, jowly man with thick white whiskers and a squinty look behind a pair of tiny gold glasses was standing before him, expression quite sour. “Aha! It took you long enough,” he snapped, folding his arms.

Victor blinked. “I – beg your pardon?” _He’s been expecting me?_ Is _Alice here?_

“You won’t be receiving any from me – nor a tip for such leisurely service,” the man said with a hard glare. “It's been thirty minutes! Surely it cannot take that long to fetch a simple sandwich!” He eyed Victor’s empty hands. “And you don't even have it now! Don’t tell me there’s been a problem. I remember when this was the finest hotel money could buy!”

 _Oh!_ “I’m n-not an employee, sir,” Victor corrected him, smiling awkwardly. “I’m a visitor. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Wilton J. Radcliffe?”

“Visitor? Then where is that boy with my food? I’ll have to make a complaint at the front desk. . . .” The man shook his head, then frowned at Victor. “I am Mr. Radcliffe – are you here to tell me my house is finally ready?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Then please be on your way. I’m not taking clients at the moment." He stepped back and started to close the door.

“I’m not a client, Mr. Radcliffe,” Victor said quickly, putting his hands behind his back so he could fiddle with his fingers in relative privacy. “My name is Victor Van Dort. I’m a friend of Alice Liddell. She’s gone missing, and – w-well, I know it’s unlikely, but I was hoping that you might just have some information for me.”

Radcliffe paused, then squinted at him, adjusting his glasses. “Van Dort? The same as the fish people?”

“The very same,” Victor nodded. _Polite and charming, that's the key._ _Lay it on as thick as you can. Pretend Mother will scold you if you don’t._ “My father’s the owner of the whole enterprise. I am sorry to intrude upon you like this, but it's very urgent.”

“Hmmm. . .and you’re a friend of Miss Liddell?”

“I am. We both live at the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth.”

Radcliffe looked puzzled for a moment. Then, suddenly, something seemed to click in his mind. “Oh! That's right, you're the one who – well. Let’s just say the servants’ talk is less than complimentary." He straightened up. "Quite the nasty business, if they're to be believed. I understand things get mangled in the retelling, but still. . .your poor parents. I never expected to encounter you in the flesh. I do hope Dr. Bumby’s having better luck with you than he is with Miss Liddell.”

Victor couldn't help just staring for a moment. _Did he really – I'd often wondered if you were really as bad as Alice made you to be,_ he thought, concealing his irritation as best he could. _Thank you for taking as little time as possible to prove yourself worse!_ “Please, sir,” he said, keeping his voice carefully level. “I’d rather not talk about – t-that. Like I said, I have a rather more urgent matter to discuss right now. Alice and I intended to visit you at your home earlier today, you see. Unfortunately, we got separated along the way, and now she’s vanished. I’m worried that she may be in a bad state.” He swallowed as memories of Alice screaming at furniture while flames licked at her skin wormed their way back into his mind. “H-have you seen her at all? Out on the street, or even here in the hotel?”

“Certainly not,” Radcliffe said, his fat face wrinkling into a deep frown. “I haven’t been out all this morning, and I doubt Alice would be allowed inside the Langham. To be honest, I would prefer to never set eyes on the girl again." He scowled at Victor over his glasses. "Do you know how our last meeting went, Master Van Dort? She had a complete mental breakdown right in my office! Accused me of stealing her rabbit, of spending all her inheritance. . .she even _threatened_ me in an attempt to get her hands on the inquest report! She forced me to flee my own home for fear of my life! I suppose spending ten years of your life in an asylum doesn’t do much for one’s manners, but she was always a stubborn and impertinent child. Dean Liddell let her get away with far too much.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “She admitted to me she got a little nasty with you, yes,” he said coldly. “She also said that you accused her of starting the fire.”

The lawyer deflated. “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “Foolish of me, I know. She looks well enough, but appearances often deceive. She's unstable and violent, if the reports of the asylum nurses are to be believed. One does not poke a lion in the eye and expect not to be bitten. Or have a good suit ruined, in my case. . . . But still. If she keeps on like that, she’s going to end up back at Rutledge.” He shook his head before giving Victor a probing look. “She’s gone missing, you say?”

“Yes,” Victor nodded, his stomach breaking out the old circus act. “I managed to track her to your house, but–”

“What?!” Radcliffe gasped. “She broke into my old residence? What a criminal mind she has! I knew right from the start she was trouble!”

Victor huffed. “Sir, forgive any impertinence, but of course she went to your house – that's where we were both going at the start. You never gave her any indication that you'd moved. Besides which, she hardly _needed_ to break in. The back door is wide open.”

“Is it?” Radcliffe grumbled, drumming his fingers against his vast belly. “Those louts must have decided it wasn't worth their time to lock the place up properly. I can only imagine who's taken it over. . .you pay someone good money to have an important job done, and this is what you get.” He hit Victor with another glare. “Did she take anything?”

“Not that I could see, sir. Though, if you’ll pardon me saying so, there wasn’t much to take.”

“Yes, true – thankfully I had the sense to put my most valuable things in storage.” Radcliffe folded his hands in front of him. “Well, I have to say you've wasted your time coming to me. I haven’t seen either hide or hair of Alice in a month. Nor do I wish to.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?” Victor pressed.

“None whatsoever. That’s not my business anymore. I’ll be out of this wretched city soon enough – once those builders correct their mistakes to my quarters. And then I will be conducting any further business with Miss Liddell strictly through the mail.”

Victor sighed, staring at his feet. Damn. He’d known it was a one-in-a-million chance, but there was always that part of him that wouldn't stop hoping. . . . “I see. Well then – thank you for your time.” He started to turn away, then paused. Oh yes. . . . “Actually – Mr. Radcliffe? One more question, if you please?”

Radcliffe, who had almost shut his door, poked his head out irritably. “What now?”

“Do you still have Alice’s rabbit?”

". . .What do you care about _that_?"

Victor fidgeted under Radcliffe's puzzled frown. “It's – it's c-curiosity, really. Alice was asking about it after the fire at the Mermaid, and. . .how did _you_ come to have it instead of her? ”

“She left it at the asylum, as I understand it,” Radcliffe said, opening the door just enough to lean on it. “They found it in her room while moving in a new patient, half-hidden under the bed. Nurse Darling – she was the head of Alice's ward – delivered it to me not long after, asking that I return it to her.”

Victor tilted his head, rubbing his thumb against his tie knot. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I intended to at first, but just two days after I received the toy Dr. Bumby sent me a missive asking me to dispose of it. Said it was an unpleasant reminder of Alice’s past that would simply hinder her therapy." Radcliffe rolled his eyes. "Given I've seen how irrational she gets over it, I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Irrational? It’s her last link to her family!” Victor cried, once again stunned at how inhumane man could be to man – or woman, in this case. “I’d be a bit possessive of such a thing too!”

“This is more than mere ‘possessiveness,’ Master Van Dort,” Radcliffe replied, sounding like a schoolmaster lecturing a pupil. “Alice has an unhealthy fixation with the toy. I repeat, she accused me of _stealing_ it the last time we met as part of her volley of epithets. As if a distinguished barrister and solicitor like myself would have any interest in a child’s plaything!”

Victor arched an eyebrow. “. . .Sir, with all due respect – you’ve kept it for almost a year, haven’t you?”

Radcliffe gave him a look that said that he did not appreciate Victor constantly poking holes in his arguments. “Sentiment prevented me from simply throwing it away,” he confessed reluctantly. “I was fond of the Liddells, and – it just seemed _wrong_ to consign one of the only items to survive the fire to the bin. Foolish of me – all it’s done is make my life worse. What I should have done was donated it to a Christmas giving box the first chance I had. At least then I could have directed Alice to _them_ when she got in a mood. ” His eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously. “Is she _really_ missing, or did she send you here to get it?”

“No!" Victor snapped, before reluctantly adding “Although I'll admit that our planned visit was another attempt to retrieve it. And if you have it with you now, I'll happily take it off your hands."

"It _did_ get mixed into my personal effects," Radcliffe said, glancing behind him. "And I certainly wouldn't mind being rid of it. . .has Dr. Bumby changed his mind, then?"

"Probably not, but I don’t care what Dr. Bumby says – I believe the toy would only help Alice improve. At the very least, she'd be so much happier at the Home. Isn't that a good enough reason to return it to her?”

“You’re hardly a trained psychiatrist, Master Van Dort,” Radcliffe said, folding his arms. “Have you seen Alice at her worst?”

Well, at least this was a question Victor could answer with some confidence. “I have, sir,” he replied, mirroring the lawyer. “I was forced not only to walk the length and breadth of the East End searching for her, but pull her out of a burning building beside. I've lived with her for just about half a year now, and I've seen first-hand how her mind torments her, how she much she has to struggle on the bad days. And even with that, I stand by my opinion. Perhaps I'm no professional, but – but I’ve heard so many stories of Wonderland I believe I know it as well as any of her doctors. Better, even. And that doll – sir, it means the world to her. It's her last link to the happy days – to her sister. Without it, she – she has no guide to her inner world. I know that sounds mad, but it's the truth. Giving her back Rabbit might keep her hallucinations from leading her into danger – give her a necessary link back to reality.” He sighed, then clasped his hands before him. “All I want is for her to get better, Mr. Radcliffe. And I honestly, truly think her rabbit is the key to that.”

“Hmph.” Radcliffe glowered at him, unconvinced. “You should go into Parliament with speeches like that. I hope you don’t expect me to just give it to you.”

Victor bit his lip, scuffing the carpet with his foot. Embarrassingly enough, part of him had. He’d been so fixated on playing the hero for Alice, he’d just assumed that Radcliffe would surrender the toy no questions asked. Of course, life simply didn’t work that way. _Ninny – just because he lives in the West End doesn’t mean he’s any different from the other people you know,_ he scolded himself.

Not any different. . . .

Victor frowned thoughtfully. Then, meeting the lawyer's cold gaze head on, he took out his wallet and opened it with exaggerated care, making sure the lawyer got a good look at the money inside. “Would you be willing to sell it to me, then?”

Two minutes later, Victor exited the hotel with much lighter pockets and an old, tattered white rabbit doll tucked under his arm. He smiled as he emerged into the cool air. He still had no idea where Alice was, but he could chalk this trip up as a success regardless. “She is going to be thrilled to see you,” he told the doll, patting it on the head. “Now I just have to find _her_.”

***

"Ow. . .yes, feet, I know, we're almost back. . . ."

Victor limped through the Whitechapel market, doing his best to ignore the complaints coming from his toes and heels. He supposed they had reason to be angry with him. He'd been on them for four hours, after all, roaming all over both West and East End on his search for Alice. Once again, though, he had very little to show for his efforts. Most of the people he'd questioned hadn't had a clue what he was talking about, and those that did hadn't gotten more than a brief glimpse of her. What they'd seen was consistent with her usual behavior while hallucinating, though:

_"Dark-haired girl in a black-and-white dress? Yes, actually, I spotted her going around in circles in Mr. Creighton's yard. It seemed like she thought something was chasing her! I didn't want to get involved – you can't trust people like that, you know."_

_"I think I saw someone like that running around the corner when I'd finished my tea. . .she looked absolutely furious about something, I can tell you that much!"_

_"The lunatic was engaged in conversation with our fountain! I had our cook chase her off. . .why on earth would I bring her into the house? I don't want to end up like her parents!"_

Victor sighed and hugged the rabbit tight against his middle. It just wasn't fair. She'd been able to keep herself more-or-less together for an entire month, mixing and mingling with humanity, anchoring herself as best she could in reality – and then in the space of a morning she'd lost it all. Or had it ripped from her – he was aware of how violent Wonderland could be in pulling her in. _Either way, now I get to worry that there's going to be another incident like the one in the Mangled Mermaid,_ he thought, turning the corner to see Houndsditch's gates looming up before him. _Lovely. And there's the matter of telling Dr. Bumby. . .maybe if I present the news over a cup of tea he won't_ _– oh for the love of –_

He jerked to a stop, frustration and fear crowding out his weariness. Jack Splatter was leaning on the fence next to the sign, cleaver in hand. The pimp had managed to clean himself up a little from the earlier attack, though the cat scratches still stood out lividly against his face. “You’re a lucky toff, aren’t you?” he commented, idly banging the back of the cleaver against the iron bars. “Seems whenever I’m about to get my due, something comes along and wrecks the mood.”

Victor wondered if it would be smarter to just bolt in the other direction. Donny was nowhere to be seen, and he knew very well he could outrun the pimp. . . . Then he spotted the small faces peeking out at them from the nearby courtyard. If he fled, would Splatter take it out on the children? "That cat w-wasn't my fault," he said, standing his ground.

“Don't care if it was or wasn't,” Splatter replied, running a finger along the edge of his favored weapon. “What's important now is that it ain't here, and you are."

"This is an orphanage! Would you really do this in front of children?" Victor demanded, though he knew it was a stupid question the moment he said it. 

Jack snickered. "Why not? Might as well give them a lesson in what happens to those who screw over Jack Splatter.” He smacked the blade against the fence, sending out sparks.

“If y-you'd just give me some time, I could get you twice as much as you p-paid the chief!” Victor cried, backing up a couple of steps. _Oh God. . .I have to at least get him away from the courtyard, I can't let Charlie and the others see. . . ._ “Three times, if you'd like! Why can’t we settle this the way m-most people settle things around here?”

“Because it don't matter how rich your folks are – you’ll never be able to pay me enough to make up for 'That swell nobbled Splatter,'” Jack snarled, eyes glowing coals in his ruined face. He stood up straight and started advancing, swinging the cleaver before him. “Let’s have it out, Van Dort – you and me, right here, right–”

“Yes, thank you Mr. Splatter, I think that will be all.”

Victor jerked his head up to see Dr. Bumby in the front door, face surprisingly mild behind his glasses. Splatter glared at the psychiatrist. “And who do you think you are to order me around?”

“A respectable citizen, the owner of this establishment, and someone who can have you put in gaol for far longer than you were last time,” Dr. Bumby replied calmly as he approached the pair. “He’s one of _mine_ , Splatter. If you have a problem with him, you take it up with me. I’m sure we can come to some sort of suitable arrangement.”

Even though this was the best way out of his current bad situation, Victor found himself rankled by the doctor's words. One of his? Take it up with him? Did he think this was like a schoolboy quarrel? “I’ve already offered to pay him – multiple times,” he spoke up, wanting to regain some agency in the conversation. “Goodness, at this point, I’d be willing to let him punch me in the jaw! Again,” he added, thinking of the last time he had encountered the pimp.

“Violence is the brute’s way of solving problems,” Dr. Bumby said with a frown.

“Yeah, and there ain’t any better brute than me,” Jack Splatter said, grinning like the devil. “Oh, I'll nobble you good, swell. You and your little friend there." He poked the cleaver at the tattered old rabbit resting under Victor's arm. "Still playing with dolls, Can Dort? Want to run home to Mumsy?”

“Dolls?” Dr. Bumby’s gaze flicked down toward the bunny. His eyes darkened. “Victor, where did you get that?”

“I b-bought it off Mr. Radcliffe,” Victor mumbled, grimacing. Damn – he'd really hoped to sneak this inside without telling him. “He w-wanted to get rid of it anyway.”

“Hmph. When I told him to dispose of it, this is _not_ what I had in mind.” Dr. Bumby stepped forward and held out his hand. “Hand it over, Master Van Dort. And then perhaps we’ll have a little chat about how your actions are having a detrimental effect on Alice's health?”

Maybe it was the way Dr. Bumby looked at him – all faux-fatherly disappointment. Maybe it was the way he stood, completely assured of Victor’s unquestioning obedience. Maybe it was the way he was quietly shifting the blame for Alice's pain off of himself and onto the one person who gave a damn. Or maybe it was just the way Jack Splatter sniggered as he watched from the sidelines. Whatever the reason, something deep inside Victor snapped. “No,” he said firmly.

Dr. Bumby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Master Van Dort, I am in charge of–”

“I am _not_ twelve years old, Dr. Bumby,” Victor cut him off, straightening up to his full six feet three inches. Annoyance coursed through his veins, burning away anxiety, fear, and anything else that would normally still his tongue. “I am twenty, and I am perfectly capable of knowing my own mind. I bought this rabbit fair and square from Mr. Radcliffe. Therefore, it is my property, and mine to do with as I wish. Try to take it from me and I’ll summon the police and have them have a little chat with you about theft!”

Dr. Bumby’s jaw dropped open. Victor couldn’t blame him – he'd probably do the same if he was watching this. “You – you can’t talk to me in that manner,” the doctor finally said, his voice full of open astonishment.

“Who says I can't?” Victor replied, spine stiff and face hard. "You have done everything in your power to make my life here as difficult as possible. I do not need to be scolded like a recalcitrant child all the time!" He held up the toy and shook it. "Perhaps you’re right about this being detrimental to Alice’s health. If that is the case, I will retrieve the rabbit myself and apologize when the time comes. But for now, I respectfully disagree with your assessment that she has to give up every last remnant of her family history in order to get well. And I rather less respectfully disagree with your idea of ‘radical treatments’ for me. I do not need pills, or extra sessions, or anything else that you may have planned.”

“But–”

“I have walked these streets for over half a year! Excluding the incident with Mr. Splatter – which was an act of passion on my part, and which I would _dearly_ love to take back–” he added in Splatter’s general direction “–do I _look_ as though I’m incompetent to handle my own affairs?”

“Your parents would disagree,” Bumby said, rallying.

“My parents, particularly Mother, seem to believe that I never got past the age of _five_. I’ve let them run my life for far too long. I should have never let them bring me here in the first place, threats to track me to the ends of the earth or no.” He glanced at the rabbit, which stared back at him with its single eye. He could almost imagine it was cheering him on. “Then again, meeting Alice makes up for a lot. . . .” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter right now. I no longer care what my parents authorize in regards to ‘treatment.’ I’ve been saying from the very start I don’t need help. It's about time I make good on that.” He glared into Bumby's eyes. “I’m not taking pills. I’m not attending extra sessions. I may even stop attending the sessions you’ve already scheduled. I am instead going to find whatever job I can in this wretched city. And once I’ve saved a few pounds, I’m finding a flat and moving out. And nothing you say or do can make me change my mind.”

“A mad swell like yourself? Who the hell’s going to hire you?” Splatter asked, snorting.

“I’ll find someone. I’ll lift boxes or sweep floors for a living if I have to. And I'll give you three-quarters of my wages for however long it takes to pay off my debt, if it means you'll leave me alone.” His brows lowered. "If I don't decide to just take that cleaver and shove it in _your_ belly."

Now it was Splatter's turn to look shocked. "You wouldn't have the guts."

"I suppose the story of how I took on an enraged swordsman with only a fork hasn't circulated? I got first, second, and third blood on him, Splatter. I'd only need first with you."

“Master Van Dort, stop this at once!” Dr. Bumby shouted, fists balled. "You cannot just abandon your therapy!"

“I can and I will! And do you know what else? If Alice ever gets tired of you and your insistence on erasing her entire past under the guise of ‘helping,’ I’ll invite her to come and live with me!” Victor yelled back, buoyed forward by the sheer power of pure exasperation. “I don’t care anymore what anyone might say about it. Even in the West End I’m apparently known by ugly names. What harm could it possibly do to my reputation now?” He spun on his heel and headed for the front steps. “I am through discussing this at the moment, Dr. Bumby. There are much more important matters that need our attention."

"Such as?" the psychiatrist snapped.

"Such as you needing to talk to your 'contacts' about setting up another search for Alice – I’m terribly sorry to report she’s gone missing again." He shot an icy look over his shoulder. "No thanks largely to the man who stands beside you. I personally will be discussing the matter with the police. It's about time we got professionals involved.”

“She’s what?!” Dr. Bumby started toward him. “Master Van Dort, you get back here right this instant or I’ll–”

Victor whirled around, his patience completely at its end. “Oh, go to hell, you blooming crow! And you too, you muck snipe!”

Bumby froze, jaw practically on the cobbles this time. Splatter too seemed stunned into muteness. Victor whipped away again, stalking through the front doors, anger carrying him all the way to his room. _Oh, the two of them, they_ _make me so – urgh!_ He slammed his door and tossed the rabbit on his bed. _Worthless, wretched pieces of humanity! It's enough to make you think we should ask God for another Flood and start over a second time! Uuuugh. . ._ _I hope I got the insult right. I’m pretty sure ‘crow’ means ‘doctor._ _' And 'muck snipe – well, I'm not sure, but it didn't sound pleasant when_ _that workman shouted it at the bricklayer_ _. Not like Splatter doesn't deserve worse. . .which I threatened to give to him. . .oh my God I just threatened to kill Jack Splatter_ what is wrong with me _?!_

Victor pressed himself up against his door, hyperventilating as he came off his adrenaline-fueled high. _I'm never going to be able to go outside again! That was an open declaration of war! He's not even going to hesitate the next time he sees me, he's just going to show me the color of my own liver! And God, I just told someone with a direct line to my parents and_ _the full ability to have me committed to go to hell! What was I thinking?! . . .That he's an arse, what else?_

For some reason, that brought on a fit of giggles. Victor clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle them, folding over on himself. "Oh. . .oh dear," he whispered as he finally calmed down. "Well, I certainly can't scold Alice for her fits of temper anymore. . . . I never thought I could get that angry. Control, I need to get myself back under control. . . ."

He slumped onto the bed, rubbing his forehead. He'd made some powerful enemies today and no mistake. But even with that knowledge, he couldn't quite regret what he'd said. Yes, he shouldn't have gone as far as he had, especially with Splatter. But – he’d nearly gotten married twice, survived a trip to the afterlife, almost taken a sword through the ribs for someone, kept his sanity (mostly) while confined to Whitechapel, and punched the East End’s most notorious pimp in the face hard enough to knock him over and render him unconscious. It was about time that he started actually sticking up for himself. He turned to look at the rabbit laying next to him. “I think Alice would be proud of me, don’t you? At least for the bit regarding not being treated as a child?”

The bunny didn’t respond, of course. Victor colored as he realized talking to old soft toys didn’t exactly help his case of declaring he was an adult. Ah well – at least he was in relative privacy. _And besides, that rabbit is the best conversational partner I’ll get around here with Alice gone,_ he thought, picking it up and putting it in his lap. _Damn it, where could she have wandered off to this time? There seems to be a correlation between her surroundings and Wonderland, but_ _I don't know what she actually saw before she fell down the rabbit hole again. . .nor what it means for her behavior in the domain she's been summoned to._ He sighed and flopped over, staring at the ceiling. _I hope she doesn't start attacking people now – the guilt would ruin her completely_ _. At least this time I can get the help of the police. Constable Hightopp seemed kind enough – I’ll talk to him about it, ask him to keep an eye out for her._ _And, uh, perhaps seek his help in dealing with Splatter too. . .I've got enough saved to pay for a bodyguard, I think. Because I can't just stay in here and rot. If I don't start looking for work, Bumby will think I'm all talk. Which – I have been, let's face it. It's just always been easier to go along with what everyone else thinks is right. . .but no more._ _I’ll be pounding the pavement_ _as soon as I'm able, searching for Alice, jobs, and lodging_ _s_ _._ _The sooner I can separate myself from my parents’ allowance, the better._ He chuckled. _Emptying my wallet today on cabs, information, and_ _toy_ _s was probably a good start_ _._

He stroked the rabbit behind the ears, feeling a tiny bit better about things. “Perhaps it’s a step backward to say this, but I wish you could come to life and lead me to her,” he muttered. “You’re supposed to be good at that, from what I hear. Well – sort of. Enough.” He glanced down at the toy. “Please?”

The rabbit again made no reply. Victor turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “Well then – wherever you are, Alice, I hope you’re in a better place than I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Langham Hotel is a real London hotel, which opened June 16th, 1865, with the ceremonies indeed done by the Prince of Wales. It's still around today, and is still considered a very "posh" place to stay (with a five-star classification). Also, Room 333? Considered one of the most haunted hotel rooms in England. XD


	15. Ascent To The Peak

Mysterious East

"Ugnh – ooof – you're _sure_ this is a test of _mental_ fitness?"

"It's the one all of our greatest scholars have passed," the Ant Elder said from his perch on the jade nearby. " The moving of the blocks is almost unnecessary.  To see the dragon as whole, even when it is scattered –  _that_ is proof of a mind able to do the impossible!"

He sounded so proud that Alice couldn't bring herself to admit that she found the puzzle to be pathetically easy – at least in theory. Which way the blocks should go to form a complete dragon was obvious. It was shoving them into place that was the tricky bit. She pressed her shoulder against the chunk with the head and pushed hard, forcing it past its neighbors. "Yes, this is definitely what proves my worth as the savior," she muttered as she moved to the next. “Not the fact that I was able to defeat a huge wasp covered in thick armor and wielding a wicked staff able to knock me off my feet from a good couple of yards away. Sliding picture puzzles, _that’s_ the ticket. Why, if only we'd had one in Heart Palace – the Queen would have had to surrender her crown once I impressed her with my mental might.”

Still, when it came down to it, she'd much rather be arranging blocks at the will of an elderly bit of origami than trading katana and Hobby Horse blows with the Samurai Wasps. The raiders of this realm were vicious indeed, hiding their bug-eyed (ha) heads behind fearfully-grinning masks and darting to and fro almost as fast as she could dodge. "Almost" being the key word – once Alice had realized they genuinely weren't quick enough to catch her in butterfly form, she'd readily handed them their stingers. Even their leader – a Daimyo, if she remembered Radcliffe's babbling about the different ranks of warriors right – hadn't been too hard once she'd stunned him with a blast of green tea. Their real advantage seemed to be in numbers – if you saw one, you knew there were another two behind you, ready to strike. But Alice was used to such tactics by now, and didn't let it slow her down in the slightest. _Even so, I'm not looking forward to future battles. If they start teaming up with Ruins, things could get very tricky very quickly indeed_ _. I can't afford to get complacent – the ants can attest to that._

A painful shudder went up her spine as she recalled the carnage that had greeted her when she’d first entered their village. Blood splattered across the pale sands, fragile paper bodies impaled on vicious spikes, screaming heads torn from their owners – and worst of all, every tiny boxy home transformed into a charred husk. A few had even been burning still, hungry flames consuming the ivory parchment walls and spitting out ebony ash. She’d run past those as quick as her legs could carry her. Even inside their temple, the one safe place anyone should have, corpses had littered the floor, with the wounded lying nearby, groaning in agony or praying desperately to their elegantly-folded statue of Caterpillar for relief. Some had claimed her heart was made of stone, but even one of purest marble would have gone out to these creatures. _Not to mention they’re the first to treat me with any sort of respect around here,_ she thought, finally locking the last block into place. _No demands for this or that, no complaints on how I’m doing my job – just “savior” and “benefactor” right off the bat._ _Well, mixed with "rash" and "imprudent," but I won't quibble._ _It’s nice to be appreciated for a change. Even if it does mean solving silly little block puzzles._ "I'm done!"

The Elder peered at her work, then clapped his hands. "You can save us! I'll open the path!" He waddled over to something hidden behind a slab covered in decorative swirls, and soon after the mahjong tile gate swung open. "My brother awaits you at the entrance to our sacred cave!"

"I'll try not to keep him long," Alice promised, rubbing her aching arm. "You should probably go and help with the wounded. They need someone who knows and thinks things."

"Ah, yes, quite." The Elder turned to go, then held up one hand in warning. "But be careful – the way is not always clear, and a nasty fall waits those who cannot see!"

Alice gave him a grin. "You'll find this dress of mine quite talented in that regard." Waving goodbye, she jogged through the simple wooden doors.

The gravel crunching under her feet quickly gave way to the clack of more jade. Not much more, though – down a short flight of steps, the ground terminated in a large open ledge. Alice pulled up short at the edge, staring down into the dark waters what felt like miles below. "Last I checked, 'not always clear' was not a synonym for 'not there,'" she mumbled. Then her eye caught a pot inked with blue clouds hovering not far underneath her, steam gushing from its depths, and she grinned again. "And it seems it still isn't. Now, how do I – oh, wait, wait, Alice. You know what happens if you just rush through a place." Turning on the spot like a peculiar ballet dancer, she examined her surroundings for any hint of concealed paths or suspicious-looking china shards.

Sure enough, past a stand of rolled-paper bamboo edging a dark rock wall was a tiny hole of light. Alice headed straight for it, to find a keyhole set into the gemstone crag. _Wonderful,_ she thought, shrinking with a hiccup to fit through the miniscule opening. _Hopefully some teeth will be hiding at the end of this – my Teapot Cannon could use one of Yves’s upgrades. Or maybe a bit of meta-essence to refresh myself before going forward?_ _I'm not feeling totally myself after all those katanas biting into my flesh. Ugh, if only I had some of the poison I use to keep the rats at bay back home. A good coating on my Vorpal Blade and Hobby Horse and I could take them down in one hit, I bet._

She wound her way down the tube of porcelain, eventually ending up in a somewhat-claustrophobic round chamber. Dominating the tiny area was a statue of a woman barely covered by a fold of green cloth, her naked breasts on full display. Streaks of bright red trailed down her cheeks, and her mouth was twisted as if in pain. Alice's stomach turned upon seeing her. What on earth was such a disturbing decoration doing here? Was it somehow related to the prostitutes she saw desperately plying their trade all over Whitechapel? Radcliffe did tend to bring up thoughts of her Nanny these days ( _your taste in men, even as temporary companions, leaves much to be desired, Madam Sharpe_ ). . .but no, something about this scene poked at a deeper part of her brain. Something to do with – with – sleep-talking? A nightmare she'd overheard? _Well, Lizzie's room was pretty near mine. . .it must have been an awful dream indeed, what with the sick taste on my tongue._

She shook off the – geisha? She was pretty sure that was the right word – the geisha's attempt at probing her mind, and directed her gaze elsewhere. A couple of peaches, a paper balloon, and – a glittering syringe floating at the statue’s base. Rutledge? Why would this woman be standing sentinel over a memory from – _Oh God. I – I know those brutish nephews of the superintendent tried to take – “liberties” with me once, but I don’t remember them_ succeeding _. . .but that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? I don’t remember. And I’m not sure I want to._

She rocked on her heels before the memory for a good two minutes, trying to decide whether or not it would be truly detrimental to her journey to leave this one behind. The simple, bone-deep curiosity that was such a part of her won the day – that and the desire to know whether or not a certain pair of twins needed new holes stuck in them. Taking a deep breath, she darted in and tapped it.

_One small suitcase. That was it. That was the sum and total of her entire life to date – one small, battered suitcase._

_Alice sighed as she looked at the meager possessions packed into the luggage's shallow mouth. This was – this was pathetic. A decade ago, she'd had a roomful of toys, a closet almost bursting with clothes, and all sorts of other little fiddly bits and bobs that she'd never properly appreciated. She'd just assumed they'd always be there, at least until she grew up and moved into her husband's house. And then of course a few items would be traveling with her, to help her set up her own home. The notion that she might not always have her books or dolls or favorite blue and white stockings hadn't even crossed her mind. But then the fire had come, eating everything up, straight down to her father's fabled brick. . .and now. . . ._

_She sorted through her packing, just to make sure she'd really grabbed it all. One ugly green dress the color of pond slime, procured by Witless. The other, a black-and-white number she actually kind of liked, hung on the door for tomorrow. Next to it was the ratty red coat the old nurse had found – a poor fit, but Alice would take what she could get. One raggedy apron, also courtesy of the night nurse. Two pairs of gray stockings. A set of underthings. A journal graciously given to her by Dr. Wilson, who’d included the various sketches she’d made during her last year of confinement. Two pencils gifted to her by Nurse D-. And a single handkerchief sent from Nanny. Alice folded that up and put it neatly atop the bloomers. Two changes of clothes, a notebook, and a couple of writing implements. That was the extent of what she owned – excepting Mr. Bunny, of course. Alice picked him up from beside her pillow and gave him a hard squeeze. Nurse D- had offered to repair his missing eye again, but Alice had politely refused. The lost button, burst stitches, and worn fabric were battle scars, much like the ones she wore. Having him be a mess too made her feel a little less alone in the world. "Don't worry – you don't have to go in there until right before we leave," she whispered in his floppy, slightly-charred ear. "We've still got one last night in this horrible place, and I refuse to face it without a friend."_

_Mr. Bunny didn't reply (he hadn't said anything since she'd defeated the Queen and restored Rabbit, which she was hoping was a good sign), but his simple solidness against her chest was comfort enough. She put him back in his usual place and closed the lid on the suitcase. One more day, and then she'd be free. Well, free in the sense of attending therapy in an orphanage instead of a madhouse. But there would be no more straitjackets, or leather straps, or spoons being shoved down her throat. Freedom enough for her, honestly. She clicked the locks into place and set the bag down by the door for easy pickup once the morning came._

_As she did, she heard a soft buzz of conversation filtering through the heavy wood_ _. Curious, she stood on tiptoe to peek through the barred window. Dr. Wilson was walking up her hall, talking to someone she didn’t recognize. She squinted at the stranger. He had a doctor-y look about him – glasses, beard, and a good suit ill-suited for his surroundings. Most likely a colleague who worked in another part of the asylum._ _ **“. . .she is certainly ill,”**_ _Dr. Wilson_ _said as they came close enough to be understood_ _, inclining_ _his head at her cell_ _. Alice ducked out of sight, not wishing to_ _catch their interest and interrupt_ _._ _ **“She imagines odd things.”**_

_Certainly ill? Imagines odd things? Coldness invaded Alice's belly, as if she'd swallowed the Ice Wand. Oh no – was Dr. Wilson changing his mind about releasing her? Did he still consider her too sick in the head to mingle with “normal” people? She was trying so hard to ignore the strange visions, to act like everyone else. . . . Was freedom going to be torn away before she could even get her fingers around it? Breathing quickly, she pressed her ear firmly against the door, not wanting to miss a single word._

_**“And she has a hero complex: an inherent desire to help others, being unable to help herself,”** the psychiatrist continued on, blissfully unaware the subject of his talk was eavesdropping. _ _**“And a compulsion to make the world right. She’s trying to ‘unlock’ the true meaning of her life – and she doesn’t know who has the key.”** _

“ _Do you think she’ll ever find it?” the other man asked. Alice thought she detected a note of apprehension in his voice, as if he was worried about just what “key” it was she was looking for._ I wonder if he’s heard the story of the spoon. I’ve no intention of trying to unlock anyone’s arteries, sir – not with liberty just a breath away.

“ _I’ve been in charge of Alice for ten years, Dr. Bumby,” Dr. Wilson replied. “Nine of which were spent in a fruitless struggle to make her respond to any sort of stimuli. Treatment after treatment attempted and failed. And then, over the course of a twelvemonth, she travels into this mental realm called 'Wonderland,' fights monsters and demons incomprehensible to a sane mind, and has herself up, walking, and talking as well as you or me by the end. She may not be completely ‘cured,’ but she’s well enough for the outside world." Alice smiled in relief. "So yes, I think she may yet find her key – but I advise you not to rush her. When she does things, she does them on her own time.”_

“Hmph – advice you should have taken to heart, Dr. Bumby,” Alice grumbled as the padded walls of her room darkened back into the gloomy stone of the cavern. “Instead of forcing me on pills and whatnot. Though I suppose there’s a bit of irony in me needing a key to my life, and you just happening to have one available for my hypnosis sessions.” Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Is this the memory behind my sudden obsession with it? Did I see it in Rutledge? It would explain a lot. . . .” 

But even as the words passed her lips, she knew that wasn’t the answer. Bumby’s favorite hypnotizing implement hadn’t been visible during that brief glimpse she’d had of her new doctor through the door’s window. Nor could she remember seeing it when he'd come in to introduce himself – or even when she'd first arrived at Houndsditch and been forced to give up the cat who'd been a stalwart companion outside her window during her confinement. Maybe it was simply the wording Dr. Wilson had used. . .ugh, but the object itself seemed more familiar by the day, taunting her, _teasing_ her. . . .

“Argh!” Alice raked her fingers through her hair, trying to scratch the irritation from her skull. “What is _wrong_ with me? It's a key! I must have seen dozens in my lifetime! There's no reason for me to think of that one as more familiar than any other! Normal people don't develop baffling obsessions over random household objects, brain!"

The reminder that, after almost a year in Bumby's care, she'd really done nothing but backslide made her even more annoyed with everything. She took out her feelings on the peaches and box, then left the geisha to weep her bloody tears. "'Unlock the true meaning of my life. . .' Forget 'meaning,' all I want is a _life_ ," she grumbled as she made her way back to the windy pot. "Who gives tuppence about great truths when you can't even get through one day without worrying about talking flowers and cats that aren't there?" Hop on the six swords tile, then drop into the whoosh of steam. "All I want is to stay out of that accursed asylum and have the same problems ordinary people do. The worst ordeal of my life should be figuring out what to make for supper." Into another gust of steam, drop down on a woman-faced tile. "I've no trouble with gathering up memories of my family, but why in God's name are these tidbits from Wilson or Witless or even Bumby so important? Can’t I just be left alone, to struggle and survive like everyone else in Whitechapel?" Jump onto a spiky-box tile, ride it round until it met its twin, then switch and ride that to the next ledge. "I was getting rather good at it, I thought.”

There was indeed another Elder over here, waiting by a toothy stone face set into the jade. "The chosen one! The wicked wasps lay siege above us, and control the peaks to East and West," he said as she approached. "You must defeat them to reach Caterpillar's retreat!"

"Retreat is right," Alice muttered, folding her arms. "Still, I suppose I must go to the mountain top, as it won't come to me."

The Elder's beard swayed. "Don't be faint of heart. We have faith that Caterpillar, the strange and wondrous, helps those in need. One day, we'll have proof." 

All right, that got a smile out of her. "He's more for talking than doing, but he can give good advice, I'll grant you that." She fiddled with her wrist guard. "I'm more touched by the faith you all have in _me_. We've only just met, and already everyone seems more or less convinced I'm the one to save you all." She tilted her head. "Are you familiar with the Torch Gnomes?"

"Stories spread," was the Elder's rather enigmatic reply. "And you have proven your worth with blade and thought. We are not the only ones who see you as special. Even in your other world, there are those who recognize your power."

Alice snorted. "Really. Dr. Wilson may have said that I have a hero complex, but I can't think of anyone who sees me as such. The children mock me, Witless considers me a meal ticket, Bumby gets more frustrated with my antics by the day, and–"

_"Here you are, Alice. I – I hope you like it."_

_"Victor, you've given me at least half a dozen drawings by now, and have I said I disliked any of them?_ _”_ _Alice replied, shaking her head as she accepted the paper._ _"I thought you agreed that you had tal-ent. . . ."_

_Her voice faded away as she got a proper look at the scene her friend had drawn. "Yes, ah – I took some liberties with the steam," Victor confessed, hovering over her like an anxious pink-cheeked hummingbird. "It – it just seemed right. . .I hope it doesn't look silly to you."_

_Alice ran her fingers over the ink lines that_ _curled_ _from her paper-self's shoulders, spreading out and swirling into a suggestion of wings. "Not at all," she said, glad her voice didn't sound as choked as she feared it would. "_ _Wonderful job as always_ _, Victor. Thank you."_

She bit her lip. ". . .and Victor's more my hero than I'm his."

"Even modesty can come in too large a dose," the Elder replied, jabbing a hand at her chest. "If he works to save you, isn't it in part because you've done the same for him?"

Alice pondered that. Lately, all she'd been able to think about was how she was running him ragged trying to keep her from accidentally killing herself, but. . .before all this nonsense had started, she _had_ done a lot to help Victor adjust to his life in Whitechapel, hadn’t she? A friendly greeting on first arrival, snippets of advice doled out when necessary, protecting his piano time and inspiring his artistry. . .little things here and there to keep him happy and safe. A compulsion to at least make _his_ world right. And she could already imagine his thoughts on the subject: _“You and the children may argue a lot, but you still tell them stories, and you almost never slack in your duties to them. I know you don’t want them to suffer like you did. Your sessions with Bumby are an endless source of frustration – and believe me, I understand why – but you never deliberately shirk his therapy. Witless – all right, she's a berk, but you could be a lot worse to her. And what about Wonderland? You’re constantly complaining about how all the inhabitants do their best to get under your skin, either figurative or literally, and yet look at you now. Firmly engaged in a fight to save it, to the point of willingly abandoning the real world, despite all your protests that you’d never do such a thing. I wish you'd at least waited to do so until I caught up and could look after you, but. . .what do you suppose that says about you?”_

Her lips quirked upward. "All right, maybe it's not so unbelievable to call me 'hero.' Though how heroic can I be when it's my own mind that I'm saving. . . . But I'm determined to see this through until the end," she assured the Elder.

"Excellent," the Elder said, clapping his hands. "Purity of heart is to will one thing. Your heart is pure indeed. But to approach Caterpillar's sacred aerie, you must confront the savage Daimyos, who prevent our access to his power."

"Elder, if there is _one_ thing I am good at, it's booting creatures ' nether regions," Alice smirked, pulling out her Blade briefly for emphasis. "And I'd love to prove Wilson and Bumby and all the rest who think I can't help myself wrong."

The Elder nodded and crawled out of the way. "Then I'll open the entrance to the Sacred Cave, where your journey begins."

One complicated motion of his hands later, the hunk of stone blocking the face's mouth slid away. Alice bowed politely to the Elder before sliding in down the tongue. "All right, 'hero,' she murmured as she dropped into the cave. "Time to show them – and yourself – what you're really made of." 

***

“Hmm. Either my subconscious really is much more sympathetic to Nanny and Splatter's workers than I thought, or you're meant to represent something else and the eternal riddle of this realm will be to figure out what.”

The geisha statue didn’t reply, frozen with her hand pressed against her pale face. Alice regarded it with hands on hips, trying to puzzle out its purpose. This was just the latest in a series of sister statues that had been popping up here and there ever since her first encounter in the cave. And while no two were completely identical, they all shared a pair of common themes – a cloth covering that still left large portions of their anatomy bare, and an expression of intense sadness and pain. This one lacked the bloody "tears" common to most of her companions, but her eyes were clearly screwed up in silent weeping nonetheless. _Perhaps they're creations of the Origami Ants,_ Alice theorized, kicking little splashes of water over the woman's legs. _Their sadness and grief made porcelain “flesh.” But if that's the case, why on earth is so much skin exposed? The ants shouldn't have any concept of nakedness – their clothes are their_ bodies _. Surely if they made them, every one of these girls would be fully dressed. No, my first guess is probably right – this is from me, and it's about every girl I've seen either having to ply her trade or fend off assault._ _Have I really gotten so used to sexual violence outside our door that it’s become a permanent part of my mental landscape?_ She cringed, quietly disgusted with herself. _Lovely. Oh, how I wish I could turn back the clock and see_ _the_ _Wonderland that was_ _nothing but simple childish innocence_ _. . . ._

Well, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. This particular section of the mountain was more cheerful than the last, with its blue-painted china trees and water-spilling pots, but the presence of the Wasps ruined the illusion of tranquility. But tranquility wasn't what had drawn her to this damp island anyway. The crystal butterfly that revolved slowly above the pool’s surface – _that_ was what had grabbed her attention as she'd floated over, ready to wash herself off after her last battle. "Though you're a mystery in yourself, you know," Alice informed the delicate creature as she splashed her way over. “Victor told me long ago his mother was never one for collecting Eastern art, and I never discussed Radcliffe much with him. So why have you chosen to appear now?”

The sun glittered on the butterfly's wings, as if telling her to _"break me and see."_ Shrugging, she brought her fingers to the crystal’s surface.

_The tanned hand stretched toward her, a tiny jade figure resting on its palm.“Miss! Miss! Dragon charm!" a hopeful if heavily-accented voice said. "Bring much luck!”_

_“Not in my case – I’ve had terrible experiences with dragons,” Alice said, shaking her head as the crude serpentine figure took on the proportions of the Jabberwock._

_"Dog then? Loyalty assured!"_

_"I've got that already," Alice chuckled, glancing at Victor. He smiled back, rubbing the back of his neck._

_The man turned to him. "Sir? Charm?"_

_"I'm sorry, but no," Victor said, holding up a hand. "None of the figures really strikes my fancy. Thank you anyway."_

_The charms man sighed and retreated beneath the brim of his wide hat, rearranging the crude animals on his table. “I thought you might have taken the dragon,” Alice commented as they continued down the street. “You've mentioned in the past you've imagined a few as pets.”_

_"From what I understand, Oriental dragons are more inclined to nap in rivers than chew up your worst childhood bully," Victor replied, making her snicker. Dropping his voice, he added, "Besides, they weren't really very good, were they?"_

_"Not really," Alice admitted, glancing behind her. "That dog was barely more than a stone hit once or twice with a chisel. But I'm sure someone will throw sixpence his way. After all, he's 'exotic,' and as we all know, exotic – oh!"_

_Alice darted across the street, charms forgotten. "Victor! Come look at this!" she called, waving her friend over._

_"What is it?" Victor asked, waiting for a couple of passing chickens before joining her._

_"A stationer's shop, I think – I can't read the sign, obviously," Alice said, eyes flicking to the neatly-printed characters above the door. "But see what he's done with his window!"_

_The way Victor's eyes lit up as he took in the scene was a treat. "Oh my," he said, leaning up against the glass with her. "It's a little zoo!"_

_It was indeed – filling the window were carefully folded representations of almost any animal you could think of. Elephants with raised trunks paraded along the bottom pane, while monkeys hung from carefully folded trees along the sides. A tiger stalked an unsuspecting antelope on the left, and a dog herded multicolored sheep on the right. Above it all, birds soared against a backdrop of blue, joined by dragonflies and – "Butterflies!" Victor cried, thrilled. "Oh my, look at all those delicate folds! I wish I knew how to do it." His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. "Though I'd probably go through a whole notebook of paper trying to get it right."_

_"I'm sure this fellow did the same when he was first starting out," Alice said, giving her friend a standard "stop putting yourself down" poke in the ribs. "But it is impressive, isn't it? I never knew origami could be so intricate."_

_"Hey! Stop smudging the glass!"_

_Alice and Victor jerked away. "That's for customers! If you're not going to buy, go away!" the owner continued, glowering under thick black brows._

_"Fine, excuse us," Alice snapped back, taking Victor's hand and walking away. "A shame such lovely artwork would be connected to such a rotten personality."_

_"If he'd asked politely for us to stand back I might have gone in and seen what he had to offer," Victor agreed, frowning. "I am running low on ink."_

_"You'll just have to give an Englishman your money, then," Alice said, watching a passing couple_ _jabbering away in some incomprehensible dialect._ How can they keep it all straight in their heads? _she wondered._ It sounds an absolute mess of sound. . .I wonder if Radcliffe can speak any of it. He has to get his pots and swords from somewhere. _A playful smirk crossed her lips._ Heh, I bet his suppliers have taught him all sorts of terrible words and phrases just for the pleasure of laughing at him when he tries them out. It’s the sort of thing I would do. _“_ _Besides_ _, we still need to find that medicine shop with the herbs Dr. Bumby wanted.”_

“ _Right. . ._ _I wonder what he wants them for,” Victor murmured, head tilted._

“ _Well,_ _those from the Far East_ _are supposed to be incredibly knowledgeable when it comes to medicine,” Alice said. “And one has to be willing to try any remedy to cure those with sick minds." She squirmed a little. "Not that_ I’d _trust a race of people who believe sticking needles all over the body somehow makes one feel better.”_

_“Seriously? How on earth does that–_ _” Victor made a face._ __ _ "Oh, but I've heard much worse from party gossip.  _ _**Did you know the Chinese elite bind the feet of their wives, to show they’re so well taken care of they don’t have to walk anywhere? Can you imagine that? It sounds like slow torture.** ”_

And then the street flooded, washed away by the steady stream of water trickling out of one of the oversized vases hanging above her. Alice shuddered and rubbed her arms. Right, now she remembered – how could she have forgotten how cold the idea of purposely crippling a woman in the name of “status” had made her? “I don’t care if you’re a bit oversized compared to the rest of me,” she informed her own feet, safely encased in their sturdy black boots. “I very much appreciate the job you do. Being able to run and jump and kick things is a skill all feet should have.” She wriggled her toes. “I'm sorry I never kept my promise about giving you a new pair of boots every Christmas when I first had 'Eat Me' cake, but I simply don't have the funds for that now. Though perhaps I could manage a new pair of stockings this year. . .am I glad the English aren’t so backwards as to hobble their women!” she added, making a face. “Hearing from Lizzie how half the men of the college thought ladies should be little more than living ornaments was bad enough. Thank God Mother and Father never held with that nonsense. And that Victor doesn't either.”

And damn it, now she was worrying about him again. Caterpillar could reassure her all he liked about Wonderland releasing her should he be in real trouble, but – seriously, how would it know to do so? Wonderland's perceptions were hers, and her wandering flesh tended to avoid her best friend during these moments. She so wanted to believe he'd be there when she snapped out of this latest dream (if rightfully angry with her for entering it in the first place), but. . . . _Splatter's worse than a hungry wolf when he's out for blood,_ she thought, kicking at the water again. _Victor can't escape him forever. . .and what about Dr. Bumby? What if the letter authorizing "radical treatments" comes while I'm here? What if I come home to find him a drugged-up mess, with his memories of the Land of the Dead being pulled out his ears? Or. . .no, Alice, Victor's too posh to be threatened with Rutledge. . .I think. . . ._

All this anxiety was turning into a stone in her belly. Alice bent down and washed her face to ease her mind. "He'll be fine," she murmured. "He's stronger than he thinks, smarter than Jack suspects, and just as stubborn as Bumby knows. Maybe me abandoning him in favor of my madness will finally push him to find that flat he likes to talk about. Or better yet, break with Dr. Bumby and his parents, leave Whitechapel once and for all, and go off to some new land to live. The Amazon would be quite nice this time of year, wouldn't it? If I'm lucky, he'll send me letters detailing his latest finds."

. . .Nope, that just made the internal rock larger. Alice sighed. She _knew_ it was wicked of her to be happy that Victor had been exiled to Whitechapel, but – it was so nice to have someone to _talk_ to. Someone understanding and respectful of her, even after her history had been laid bare. Someone who could weather the storms of her insanity and never give up hope that she'd recover. And someone who didn't just  want her flat on her back with her legs spread. She rolled her eyes at that thought. She'd almost given up hope that any man beyond Dr. Bumby would see her as more than their next potential conquest. But Victor genuinely cared more about her mind than her pussy. _Too rare a breed of gentleman by half. Perhaps, if I'm very lucky, after I beg his forgiveness for leaving him behind, he'll consent to me stowing away in his luggage for that trip to South America. It would be a marvelous adventure._ She ran dripping fingers through her hair, plastering it to her head. _No matter what happens or where he goes, though, I hope he remembers to stay in touch. Letters will be a poor substitute for the man himself, but. . .I’d miss him far too much otherwise._

She clapped her hands together, banishing the stone. That was quite enough feeling sorry for herself. Maybe if she sped up her travels through these lands, she'd wake to find herself still at Radcliffe's with only a few minutes having passed. If it had happened once, it could happen again, right?  _But first let's refresh myself with that Shrinking Violet up there,_ she thought, glancing at a nearby ledge.  _And that shard of china looks like it might hide a keyhole treasure. . . ._

"Treasure" turned out to be a misnomer – while there was a memory inside the hidden space, it was just a snippet of Nanny musing about Radcliffe’s obsession with Ming pottery and Tokagowa Japan. Barely worth the time spent collecting it. The bounty of teeth from the pots that ringed the cave was much more welcome. Alice snatched them all up, then resumed her course: navigating invisible platforms, activating pressure pads, riding mobile mahjong tiles, and traversing floating wooden halls to the next bit of rock. As usual, there were more teeth and meta-essence to collect along the way ( _I'll consult with Yves about a Vorpal Blade upgrade soon_ ), as well as a rather pompous memory from Radcliffe: _“The conflagration’s point of origin was obvious. First the library caught fire; and it spread disastrously when the gas line exploded.”_ “Which I already knew from Hatter's Domain,” Alice grumbled as she crossed to the next elegantly-carved block jutting from the side of the mountain. “Why doesn’t someone tell me what supplied the fatal spark?”

She regretted her words the instant she landed. Waiting for her not two feet away was an all-too-familiar door, flames crackling behind its warped frame. Alice rocked on her heels, gathering up her courage to enter. Damn, did she hate these memories. The crystal houses could be good for a smile, depending on the subject matter, but the Liddell doors – well, they never had anything pleasant to tell her. A treacherous breeze stirred her hair, sending it flying about her face like she was back in the Deluded Depths. . .watching the log in the library fireplace flare up with evil intent as the bottom dropped out of her stomach. . . .

And then ghostly hands settled on her shoulders, and invisible fingers brushed her face. _“Don’t let the Jabberwock win_ after _he’s died,”_ a gentle voice whispered in her ear, soft and soothing.

Alice couldn't help but smile. Even when he wasn't actually there, Victor was being the best friend she'd ever had. “If only everyone I knew could be as good a cheerleader,” she murmured. “You could learn a thing or two about motivating speeches from him, Cat.” She tossed her hair out of her eyes. “As it is – nowhere to go but forward, dear Alice.” With two long strides, she reached the handle, pulled it open – 

_And found herself in her childhood bedroom, her younger self snoozing away against the pillows. Alice blinked, puzzled. Why was she here? The last two memories had taken place in the library – shouldn't she be where the mischief had started? Even after the explosion of the gas line, the fire had barely reached her room. It had been her foolish race down the blazing hall, chasing her terrified parents, that had led to a year's solitude in Littlemore Infirmary. What clues to her past could be found here? She scanned the room with a frown. Everything seemed to be order – fresh pencil scribbles tacked up on the wall; Mr. Bunny snug under her arm; a favorite fairy-tale book lying forgotten on the bedclothes; Dinah and her kittens meowing in the corn–_

_Dinah._

In her room.

_You couldn't have stunned her more effectively if you'd dumped ice water over her head. Alice stood still as a statue, unable to move even as the smoke started curling across the floor, jolting Little Alice out of a sound sleep. **“Dinah** – Dinah saved my life,” she whispered as the cat let out a terrified “merow!” and darted across the rug, Snowdrop in her mouth and Kitty at her heels. _ _"Dinah?" Little Alice said, squeezing Mr. Bunny tighter against her chest._

_"Mrrr!"_ _Dinah leapt onto the windowsill,_ _leaving Snowdrop there as she jumped down again to fetch Kitty. Then she began pawing at the glass, wailing all the while. "Fire, Alice! Fire!" came from outside._

_"Save yourself! Wake up, Lizzie!" Pounding, then a desperate rattling. ". . .Lizzie! Open the door!"_

_"The key, Lizzie! Unlock the door! You'll burn!"_

_Little Alice looked tempted to hide under her bedclothes until everything stopped being terrifying. A furious yowl from Dinah sent her scrambling to the window, shoving it open and letting a gust of cold air in. Dinah murred her discontent, then jumped outside, landing with a “fwump” in the snow. Two smaller "fwumps" followed as her kittens leapt after her. **“I survived because – she showed me how to escape!”** _

_Little Alice didn’t immediately follow her cat, however. "Mum? Dad?" she called, venturing timidly out into the smoke-choked hallway. Alice finally got her feet to move, trailing her younger self. She could just make out the blurry forms of her parents, racing back to their room. She reached out to stop Little Alice following, but her hand went right through the girl – sick and shaking, she turned away from the carnage to come –_

_Only for everything to abruptly reverse, sending her back to when she'd climbed the stairs to go to bed. She blinked rapidly, her brain scrambling to adjust. There was Little Alice, Dinah in her arms, kittens bounding about her feet. . .over here was Nanny, in her doorway, waiting to tuck her in. . .and on the side table, between her and Lizzie's room, there was her long-forgotten nightlight – the very same lamp accused of starting the fire! **“I didn’t leave the lamp in the library, and Dinah didn’t knock it over! The lamp and Dinah were upstairs when I went to bed!”** she cried as Little Alice passed her by. Then there was the sound of shattering glass, and the fire whooshed back in as the light disappeared, leaving a significantly blank spot. **“Dinah was in the room with me when the fire started!”** _

_"Mum! Father!"_

_"Get out, Alice!"_

_"Save yourself, Alice! Get out of the house!"_

_The stink of burning flesh – as Witless said, a truly unique scent – filled the room as the flames worked to claim their victims. Alice lunged at the nearest door as her younger self screamed –_

And stumbled out the other side onto rock again, coughing and shaking like a leaf. She fell to her hands and knees, drinking in the fresh air and trying everything in her power not to cry. _Well – I’m vindicated,_ she thought, running trembling fingers through her hair. _Dinah in my room – I_ knew _there was something wrong with that story! Cats are known for being tricky, but not even Cheshire's pulled off true bi-location yet!_ _And my nightlight – it was_ always _on the table in the upstairs hallway! I never touched the damn thing_ _for fear of being left in the dark!_ _There’s no way it could have been in the library!_

_Except – that it was._

_So who brought it down there?_

Alice gritted her teeth as she got back to her feet, swiping at her eyes. It had been bad enough when she’d thought her family had died by accident. Now, to consider the possibility someone had deliberately set her house ablaze. . .well, it made her blood boil. Something was truly rotten in the state of Oxford. And she was going to find out what. _Look out, Caterpillar,_ she thought, running off to see what new obstacles surely lay in her path to the mountain’s top. _You’re not going to get to play mysterious oracle_ this _time._

***

_Clank – scritch – screeekk –_ "For God's sake! What are these bars made out of?"

"It comes from a place of fire and wickedness, that's all we know!" the trapped Origami Ant said, desolate in the middle of his spiky prison.

"It seems made of pure evil to defend itself against my Vorpal Blade," Alice grumbled, testing the edge of her favorite weapon to make sure it was still sharp. "The Hobby Horse might do the trick, but I'm afraid if I hit too hard, I'd just send the entire thing toppling into the pit."

"That's what happened to Wu," another Ant in monk's robes said from a couple of cages away. He gestured toward the rusted remains dangling nearby. "The Wasps were teasing him, chawing on the sides with their wicked jaws, and. . . ." He brought his hand down in a sweeping arc. "Whoosh."

"How horrible," Alice said, feeling a wave of sympathy for the unfortunate Wu. "The Wasps grow crueler and crueler the closer I get to their nest, it seems."

"They are cruelty incarnate!" a second monk Ant declared from a prison bobbing gently above her head. “It’s not enough that they abuse and murder us – they let their spawn feed on our rotting corpses!”

"Eugh!" Alice rubbed her stomach. "Fortunate I haven't had anything to eat in a while!" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I really am – I'd get you out if I could!"

“The cages aren’t so bad – it’s the jailers we wish were not here!” the fisherman below her said, crinkling his wide hat. “They call you ‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘murderer’ in the other world, do they not? Please, when it comes to the Wasps, live up to those names!”

“On _them_ , my blade works just fine,” Alice assured him, allowing herself a slightly psychotic smirk. “I promise to show no mercy to those who remain.” _Nor to Caterpillar,_ _once I reach him_ _,_ she added to herself. _Especially_ _if he tries to worm his way out of giving me answers via stale platitudes. Why do these Ants worship him so? If he was a real god, he'd come down among these monsters and help! Smoke is supposed to puzzle wasps, isn't it? Or am I thinking of bees. . .well, it's worth a try! He has to be at least three times the size of even a Daimyo – what could he have to fear from them?_

_"Well, I'll admit that even I'm not that fond of mosquitoes or wasps. Particularly this one species of the latter that lays its eggs on living caterpillars. The larvae burrow in, and feed on the caterpillar, slowly devouring it from the inside–"_

"Hurk!"  _Yes, Victor, thank you for the entomology lesson,_ Alice thought as she fought back the dry heaves.  _That's one factoid I'd hoped to forget. But all right, I'll grant that Caterpillar has every reason to be in hiding now._ Before she could stop herself, she pictured her friend lying helpless on the rocks, millions of squirming larvae chewing on his guts and bursting through his skin. . . . Another surge of hot bile seared her throat. "That better not be what's waiting for me at the top of the mountain," she muttered, rocking to and fro to soothe herself. " Geaaah. . . ."

Snorting and snuffling from somewhere nearby provided a welcome distraction from the horrors parading through her brain. Turning carefully on the cage top, she saw a stray pig snout mounted on the rocky cliff that helped wall in this prison, next to a pair of empty cages. “Ah – more meat for the Duchess’s larder,” she commented, bringing her Pepper Grinder to hand. “What shall her payment be this time, I wonder?” She aimed carefully (not an easy feat when you were standing on a surface that rose and fell continuously), and turned the crank as fast as she could, filling the snout with pepper until it seemed as if it would burst. “Come on, come on. . . .”

_Aaaaah – CHOOOO!_ In a twinkling of blue light, the snout vanished, off to parts unknown. The cages swayed in the blast of pepper-scented wind, then abruptly dropped as their pulleys ran loose for a moment. Alice watched them carefully, expecting one to play host to a shiny golden basket soon. 

But no –  both tops and interiors stayed barren . Alice scowled. "Now see here, Duchess, we had an agreement! I'm supposed to get a reward for this nonsense!"

"What about the door?" the fisherman below her said, pointing to the ledge to their right.

"What do-oh!" Alice blushed as she spotted the hole in the stone, previously covered by a pair of china fish bound together in a green and white ying-yang symbol. "It must be in there. . .thank you, I don't think I would have noticed otherwise," she added, getting on her hands and knees so she could stick her head over the edge.

The little Ant beamed up at her. "Always a pleasure to help Alice the magnificent!” he said, giving her a polite bow.

Alice couldn’t help but preen. “You're all far too kind to me,” she said. "Please don't take that as encouragement to stop." Pulling herself back upright, she twirled her away across the cages and onto the ledge. Behind the open door was a shallow cave, and inside – no basket, but a pair of crystal glasses. “Oh damn – I was hoping for more teeth,” she muttered, disappointed. “If I could just afford that last upgrade for the Blade, maybe those cages would finally yield.”

Still, one had to work with what they were given. And she was curious about what sort of memory from Bumby lurked in a place like this. _He's talked occasionally about Houndsditch being better than prison. . . ._ She touched the glasses and prepared herself.

_“Shove off, you louses!"_

_"Give us a kiss first!" the dirtiest of the men replied, as his mates sniggered._

_"How about one from my fist? A broken jaw would serve you right!"_

_The men didn't seem to consider this much of a threat – probably because there was no way for her to carry it out. "We just want ten minutes of your precious company," one told her, whistling with every "s" thanks to a lack of front teeth. "You can spare that, can't you?"_

_"We'll make it more than worth your while," another with a nose more crooked than his smile added._

_"Excuse me!"_

_All heads turned toward the Home's back door. Dr. Bumby stood there, radiating frost over the ancient wood. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – she's not for sale!" he continued, arms folded tightly across his chest._

_"Oh come on, Bumby!" the dirty man snapped, as his friends grumbled. "Girl like this has to be worth a shilling or two!"_

_"She's worth far more than that, and more than you'll ever have," Dr. Bumby replied, glasses gleaming. He moved to the side. "Come in, Alice, before one of them tries something he may not live to regret."_

_"_ Thank _you," Alice said with feeling as she pushed her way through the crowd. Fortunately, none of the men seemed in a grabby mood. "I wish they’d stop hanging around the back door!” she added once she was safely inside the Home. "Taunting me, trying to feel me up, asking how much for a night’s work – this is not a whorehouse!”_

_“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Dr. Bumby said, glowering at the crowd as he shut them out. “You'd think eventually they'd get the message, but no. . . .” He suddenly smirked. “You know, I'm starting to wonder if one of them isn't sweet on you.”_

“ _Sweet? Those dregs of humanity outside are nothing but sour,” Alice responded, making a face. “All they want is to get between my legs. Which is never going to happen!” she added in a louder tone, making sure the filth could hear her._

_"Oh, fuck you!" one yelled (it sounded like the whistler)_ _._

_"You only wish!"_

_"Alice, don’t antagonize them,” Dr. Bumby scolded. "You don't want to know what they'll do if they're properly provoked." His voice changed, becoming more inquisitive. “Though – from a purely hypothetical standpoint – what if one of them really_ was _in love with you? What would you do then?”_

“ _Refuse him as politely as possible,” Alice replied, then rolled her eyes. “Or not so politely, as circumstances dictated. I'm not going to fall at the feet of anyone like_ that _lot.”_

“ _What about someone else, then – someone who didn't smell as if he'd been bathing in the sewer? Someone debonair and charming?" Dr. Bumby pressed. "Who declared his affections for you every chance he got, privately and publicly? Showered you with attention? Gave you flowers, chocolates, expensive presents?”_

_Alice arched an eyebrow. This conversation was taking a very weird turn. “I don't think I'm likely to meet anyone like that while living here,” she said, wondering what on earth had gotten into her psychiatrist. "And while I won't say no to flowers and chocolates, it would take much more than that to sweep me off my feet." She smiled as her thoughts drifted toward a slice of cake eagerly enjoyed earlier in the month. “Besides, the best presents needn’t be expensive at all.”_

_Bumby smiled back_ _. “True enough. The most romantic gestures are_ _deeply personal,_ _in my admittedly limited experience. Flowers and chocolates aren’t enough to win a true lady’s affections._ _You need something much more intimate._ _” He looked off into the distance, as if watching some far-away memory play behind his glasses._ _**“Lovers often exchange a lock of hair to symbolize their vows. The human heart is opened by a vast assortment of keys.”** _

“ _Yes, well, this particular heart is locked up rather tight,” Alice said, rolling her eyes again. Oh, lovely – her doctor had a touch of the hopeless romantic about him. How_ wonderful _._ He'd better not start nattering on like a cheap romance novel's male lead. _“You needn’t worry that I’ll run off with some lovesick young man before my therapy’s done.”_

_Dr. Bumby turned back to her, grinning in a way that seemed somehow – possessive. “I’m very glad to hear that, Alice.”_

And with that, the walls of Houndsditch returned to being dull gray stone. Alice shivered as she came back to herself. What a peculiar memory to find within a prison camp. . .and she had to admit, the way he'd looked at her at the end still gave her a bit of the creeps. She couldn't pin down precisely why, though. She knew from experience Bumby was incapable of looking pleased in a way that didn’t make you want to punch him. And it wasn't like she was the only one to receive that "you're mine" smile – Victor had complained about it enough. Maybe it was just the context – escaping from that refuse collection out the back, only to get such a similar smirk from someone who was supposed to help her. Not to mention its arrival after such a puzzling conversation. Shouldn't her psychiatrist already know that no one would ever want to court the madwoman? Especially men who were quite vocal about their real interests in her?

_On the other hand, looking back at it, I don't think he was actually worrying about my prospects at all,_ Alice thought, rocking on her heels.  _Something about the idea of one of them being "sweet" on me must have brought up a painful memory of a past failed romance of his own. He's dropped a tidbit or two about having loved and lost sometime in the past. . . . Hmm, you'd think someone who espouses the philosophy of "eliminating painful memories" so loudly and often would use his techniques on himself. Though maybe it's like me with my family – a few painful twinges now and then are worth all the good times. Still, you'd think he'd at least wipe away the break-up. . .I wonder just_ _whose heart it was that_ _he_ _failed to unlock_ _?_

“ _My heart is open, Alice. Never closed, never locked. It needs no key.”_

Alice froze on her tiptoes, blinking. What the – now why had _that_ memory chosen to come back to her? Lizzie's little comment was all the way back from Hatter’s Domain! _Must be my mind’s ridiculous obsession with keys again,_ she decided, shaking her head. _Here a key, there a key, everywhere a bloody key!_ _How about you stop showering me in keys and instead start directing me to their locks?_ She smirked. _Though I guess that proves one thing – Dr. Bumby wouldn’t have had much luck with my sister. No silliness about needing to unlock her heart_ _– however she felt about you, she was very vocal about it._ _And flowers, chocolates, and presents – expensive or inexpensive – wouldn’t have helped him either. God knows the undergraduates all learned that lesson quickly!_ She furrowed her brow. _. . .Come to think of it, Bumby’s the right age to have attended Oxford while my father was Dean, isn’t he? I wonder if he – no, he would have mentioned if I’d known him in childhood. He probably went to_ _Cambridge or some smaller school in London_ _._

Still, it was funny to think that Bumby and her sister could have been contemporaries. Alice snickered over the image of Lizzie dumping a pot of cold tea over the doctor's head. “She'd never approve of your pills and extra sessions, my dear sir,” she commented as she exited the cave. “You’re lucky you’ll never have to meet her.”

“Beg pardon?” the first of the monk ants called.

"What was the treasure in the secret cave?" the fisherman added, eagerly hanging onto the honeycomb bars.

“Nothing that special,” Alice called back, hopping back onto one of the empty cages. "Just a bit of silliness about love and keys."

“Oh – from your Victor?”

Alice, knees flexed for the next jump, stopped and straightened. “What? No. . . .” This again? Why on earth did everyone here keep referring to Victor as hers? She thought of him as a puppy sometimes, granted, but she hadn't gone full-out with putting a collar and leash on him yet. And what did he have to do with hearts and keys? He wasn’t a rake playing Casanova with every woman he met – quite the opposite, in fact. He'd never tried to attract any female company while stuck in Whitechapel, and his history secured his claim on the title "Master of the Failed Romance." It was likely after all that nonsense he'd stay a bachelor for life. "Dr. Bumby, actually."

"Oh." The fisherman actually sounded disappointed. "I thought. . .I haven't heard a good love poem in weeks."

"Victor's more an artist than a poet," Alice corrected him. "And besides, he's just a friend!"

"That means he can't be yours?"

"I – hmmm." Alice glanced up at the dragon-carved beam supporting her cage. The little Ant brought up an interesting point there. Victor received a lot of privileges she wouldn't bestow on anyone else – long stories about her childhood and family, forgiveness for his unthinking comments about Bumby's treatment or anything to do with fire, purely-friendly teasing – and most surprising of all, her permission to touch her more than was absolutely necessary. Hell, she'd grown to quite enjoy his hugs. And yet he'd managed to completely bugger up her first impression of him – how had she gotten from the point of wanting to deck him for his stories about the Land of the Dead to wanting to see it for herself? 

His tolerance for the unusual was certainly a large part of it. Alice suspected this was as much a weird sort of rebellion against his home village's closed-in nature as a natural part of him, but she liked it just the same. He didn't like everybody, of course, but he did at least give them a chance. He'd certainly given her more of one than most anyone else had. Not even Dr. Wilson, who'd been drawn so deep into her stories of Wonderland in Rutledge, had ever tried interacting with one of her hallucinations like Victor had. And his patience for her less-sane moments seemed to be infinite. But there was more to it than that. Maybe it was the bright enthusiasm for art and music and science that shone just underneath his dull surface. Or the fact that whenever he said something hurtful, she knew immediately he didn’t mean it (even without the barrage of apologies that followed). Or maybe. . .maybe it was the way he seemed to smile sometimes for her and her alone. Like she was someone special, despite all evidence to the contrary. _You know, I bet that’s why Victoria and Emily fell for him so quickly,_ she realized, touching her chest. _He may not be the most suave of men, but – you never doubt that he cares about you. Even during his stupider moments._ Her lips quirked upward. _Maybe – maybe it’s not so bad to refer to him as mine. Strictly in the platonic sense of course. He has even less of a chance of seeing me romantically than those louts outside the back door. Even with offering piano lessons, and dancing together, and. . . ._

Well, that was making her unaccountably depressed. Alice shoved the slowly-growing gloom aside. Who cared how Victor saw her, as long as he stood by her side? "I guess it doesn't, but we shouldn't be wasting time pondering my love life – or lack thereof," she told her conversational partner. "The top of the mountain was calling."

"Ah yes! You still have miles to go before you sleep!" the monk above her head agreed.

"Oh, hopefully not that far," Alice said, squinting up at the peak. So close now she could almost taste it. . . . She gave all the trapped Ants an encouraging wave. "Stay strong, and try not to let them bully you too much!"

"Be careful in their nest!" the first monk called as the others waved back. "The Empress does not make her home there, but the strongest of their Daimyo does!"

"I'll beat him like all the others!" Alice bounced her way across the cages and into a convenient pot of steam. “And I promise – once I talk with Caterpillar and find the answers I seek, I _will_ get all of you back to your homes! ”

The ants cheered, waving their feelers and crying things like “Alice the Beneficent” and “Alice the Marvelous.” Feeling light as a feather from all the praise, Alice soared her way to the top of the cliff, ready to take on anything in her path.

***

"You. Are bloody. Kidding. Me."

Alice glared at the figure sitting in the middle of the temple, shrouded by shadow and smoke. This was the height of ridiculousness. She'd spent God knows how long scaling this bloody mountain – fighting more enemies than she could count, running back and forth across a variety of unforgiving landscapes, and essentially dodging death with every breath she took – and finally, when she reached her goal, what was waiting for her in Caterpillar's oh-so-mysterious-and-sacred retreat? 

A statue. A Goddamned _statue_. Alice snarled at the brass depiction of the insect and his hookah, hands clutching her hips to keep them from tearing out her hair. “I’ve come all this way to find a _simulacrum_?!”

“If I had the time, I’d detail how often you prefer dealing with illusions rather than the real thing!” 

Alice started. What the – _If I've started hallucinating in_ Wonderland _, then I'm truly past all help._ "Caterpillar?" 

The statue seemed to glower at her. “Problems you refuse to deal with don’t exist!" the oracle continued, his voice echoing all around. Where could he be? This temple was all one tiny room. "You deny reality!”

“That’s not right! I know what’s real!” Alice protested – although even as she said that, she knew arguing such in _Wonderland_ probably didn’t help her case. _Of course, I know Wonderland is all inside my head. That has to count for something, right? Right?_

“No,” Caterpillar replied, voice dark. “You only think you know. And not only do you allow others to tell you what isn’t real, you ignore anything and anyone that attempts to bring the truth to your consciousness!”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. Caterpillar was sounding far too much like a Rutledge doctor for her tastes. “You know, I’ve a friend who studies butterflies,” she said, folding her arms and giving the statue a warning look. “I bet he’d love to stick you on a pin and find out just what species and genus you are.”

“Silly girl – I know everything that you do,” Caterpillar snapped back. “And the day Victor starts making bug boxes is the day he’s not Victor anymore. Let’s not waste precious time arguing – come inside!”

With no warning, the temple began to shake. The floor trembled and cracked, chunks of square paving toppling into the darkness below. Alice yelped as the bit she was standing on gave way. Fortunately, her skirt obligingly puffed out as she fell, slowing her to a gentle float and saving her from cracking her head open on any of the debris. _Why can’t anyone just have a simple door into their inner sanctum?_ she griped to herself as she drifted down. _If not for my petticoats, I’d have been stranded long before even setting foot in Hatter’s Domain._

Well, at least now she knew where the flesh-and-blood Caterpillar had been hiding. The temple had been built over a huge underground cavern, its far walls hidden in shadow. Before her, a gigantic white cocoon hung from what remained of the ceiling, like a soft, ghostly stalactite. Long threads of silk anchored it to the walls and floor, keeping the occupant stable even as the earth around them shivered. Through a sort of semi-transparent “window” in the front, Alice could see the face of her oracle, eyes closed as if in sleep. _He’s metamorphosing?_ _That’s – I know I mentioned the possibility when I first met him, but. . .after over a decade, it seems wrong. I’d gotten it into my head that he’d be a Caterpillar forever._ She landed lightly on the ground, gaze still fixed on the cocoon. _At least this explains why he hasn’t done anything to help his loyal followers._

It certainly didn’t explain his inability to talk plainly, though. She glowered up at the mummified creature, temper rising again. “What precisely is it that you want from me?” she demanded. 

“To face the truth! To recall what you have willingly forgotten!” Caterpillar replied, his voice booming around the chamber. “To accept what you have forced yourself not to see, painful as it may be! Remember, Alice, remember!”

“What do you think I've been doing?” Alice snapped back. “Wonderland scatters moments here and there, and I do my best to collect them all, but–” She stopped, sighing deeply. “I’ve been trying, I really have, but – my memories are shattered. This wicked train has ruined nearly all I can recall. And Wonderland will perish completely as I lose my mind,” she added, shuddering as she remembered the Vale of Tears being burned and broken into a Vale of Doom, Hatter's Domain falling to pieces around her ears, and the Deluded Depths boiled and crushed via the Infernal Train's rampage. “So much has changed. . . .” She wrapped herself in her arms, closing her eyes to hold back tears. Wonderland was a mad, infuriating place, full of rudeness and nonsense – but she loved it, and she did not want to see it die. “I-I can’t help Wonderland if I can’t help myself.”

“Much has changed,” Caterpillar agreed. “But you’ve got it backwards. Save Wonderland and you may save yourself." The chamber rocked again, pebbles raining from the ceiling and breaking against the floor. "The Carpenter was on to something, but he was hiding from the real. Your goal is to accept it!”

"The Carpenter was also a mass-murderer and unrepentant liar," Alice replied, rolling her eyes.

"I never claimed he was a paragon of virtue. But do you recall his last speech to you?"

_"However this ends, Alice, consider the prospect that you've been misled! Then ask, by who?"_ played again across her brain. She hadn't really pondered the question since her ignominious return from jail after the Radcliffe incident. And thinking about it now, she still didn't have a satisfactory answer. _Oh, why must everyone here always talk in such a roundabout manner?_ “I'm not good with riddles in my current state, Caterpillar," she said as more rocks tumbled down the walls. "Tell me – where should I go then? What should I do?”

“The Queen must be served, Alice. The Queen, in all her guises, must always be served.”

The _Queen_?! A chill colder than the winds of Tundraful shot down Alice’s spine. But – the Queen was a madwoman, a monster – _dead_!

Wasn’t she?

Something smacked against her foot. Alice looked down to see a good-sized stone resting next to her toes. Another three rolled down beside it, forcing her to jump out of the way. Looking up, she saw the source of the miniature landslide – a small ramp, roughly hewed out of the near wall. Alice kicked the rocks away and followed its path in reverse, coming to a ledge near the top that faced directly into the cocoon’s “window.” Built for the Ant Elders to converse with their “god?” She didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered that it was a convenient platform to yell at him. “How can _she_ stem this growing corruption, or assist my search?” she demanded as the cavern rocked in a full earthquake now, heavier and heavier stones crashing to the earth around them. “What does she know that I don’t?”

Caterpillar’s eyes at last fluttered open, gazing upon her with mysterious wisdom. Or perhaps it was just cryptic bullshit. One and the same here in this world of madness. “She is someone you once knew and loved,” he intoned as the stabilizing threads of his cocoon were severed by the downpour. His prison rocked dangerously, but he took no notice. “Time changes us all.”

“Not all change is good,” Alice replied, eying the ceiling as a boulder smashed the ramp behind her. Was it her, or was there a familiar, horrifying thundering right on the edge of all this noise. . . .

Caterpillar smiled – or, at least, she thought he did. It was hard to tell when he was upside-down. “Remember that when you find the Queen.”

The thundering grew louder, turning into the distinct roar of the Infernal Train. "I won't be able to find anyone if I'm smashed to bits!"

_CRASH!_

Alice's head jerked downward to see the last of Caterpillar’s hookahs lying in pieces on the cave floor, shattered by an enormous stone. The smoke curled up into the air, suffusing the cocoon. Caterpillar took a deep breath in – 

_WHISH – WHOOSH!_ A pair of enormous wings, painted in red, green, and black, tore free of the silk. Alice had only a moment to note that they looked something like a snarling face before the newly-transformed butterfly burst from his prison and flew to freedom. "Time changes us all,"he repeated as he receded away into the cloud of smoke.

"Wait!" Alice cried, reaching out to him. But he paid no heed, flapping his wings and growing smaller and smaller, until he looked like any ordinary moth against any ordinary window. For a moment, she was vaguely aware of an uncomfortable bed beneath her, of dirty gray walls surrounding her, and of grimy sunlight pressing against her face.

Then – all was darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very brief reference to my favorite LPer in the very last scene. Can you spot it? (It's only two words, but if you watch him, they should be familiar words.)
> 
> Okay, I'll tell you -- Helloween4545, and his distaste for "CRYPTIC BULLSHIT!"


	16. Shocking Revelations and Unexpected Detours

October 22nd, 1875

Bow Street Police Station, London’s East End, England

2:17 P.M.

"Get away from me, you fuck!"

"Oi, you there! That's enough of that!"

Alice blearily opened her eyes, muscles stiff and cold. An aged knothole stared back at her, a splinter sticking up from its edge like Odysseus's spear out of the Cyclops's eye. _Passed out on someone's floor again,_ she thought, sitting up and rubbing her head. _I need to stop this before it becomes a habit. Ugh. . . ._ She glanced up at the cracking ceiling. _Where am I this time?_

The shadow of bars across her face and the stink of old blood and urine gave her an immediate clue. _I'm back in gaol? Oh, wonderful,_ she mentally grumbled as the fog cleared from her mind. _What happened this time? How long have I been here? Did I manage to douse Radcliffe in ink again somehow? Or_ _–_ She grabbed at her chest as a spike of terror burst through her heart. _Oh please don't tell me I killed someone._ _I’m only supposed to be a bloodthirsty murderer to the Wasps!_

“Becoming a regular this nick, Alice.”

Alice looked up to see a lumpy face framed by dark blond sideburns and a battered top hat watching her through the door. A moment's determined squinting helped place him as Constable Harry Hightopp, the same man who’d chased her all over London after the first incident at Radcliffe’s. Was that really just over a month ago? It felt like years. “What’s it this time, Fred?” he added, turning away as another officer approached.

“Howling outside the Old Lady; muttering about a murder in Threadneedle Street; cursing insects, and the National Railroad,” Fred listed off, rolling his "r"s in his mild Scottish brogue. Alice hid her face in her hand. Why oh why couldn’t she just fall unconscious when she was in Wonderland? Being temporarily catatonic was much more acceptable than wandering the streets shrieking at nothing. “Had to bring her in, didn’t I?”

“Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh. . .a menace to herself – but no danger to others, surely,” Harry said, glancing in at her. That was very charitable of him, Alice had to say – especially with the way she must have been carrying on. “She don’t belong in gaol.”

“Too true,” Fred agreed, putting himself right next to his fellow policeman on her “people I rather like just at the moment” list. “But then, where does she belong?”

“That’s what I’d like to figure out myself,” Alice confessed, making them start. _Probably hadn't guessed I was properly conscious._ She hoisted herself up off the floor. “I'm sorry for causing such a fuss. . .I didn’t – I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

“Just gave a few wee ones a fright,” Fred said, leaning against the bars. “They was on a walk with their teacher when you jumped out of nowhere screamin' to duck or the fireballs would get ‘em. They scattered, and one bumped straight into me comin' off me coffee break.” 

"And I didn't try to do anything to you?"

"Nope – went in nice and quiet," he assured her. “Just mumbled something about how ‘the peak had better be worth it’ and then didn’t say a word.”

“Oh good." Alice let out a sigh of relief. “So – ah – how long have I been your guest?”

“Not more than two hours,” Harry said. “We were keepin' an eye on you in case you woke up." He rolled his shoulders. "Guess I’d better send you back to Dr. Bumby now. Don’t want him raising holy hell for daring to keep you overnight again.”

“Ooh, what happened?” Fred asked curiously.

"Well, it was the same night Jack Splatter, that waste of mother's love. . . ."

Alice tuned the two out as Harry told Fred the story of her “inquiries” toward Splatter and subsequent fainting fit, twisting her hands together. So – she still hadn't done anything too horrible while out of her senses. That was good to know, at least. Though she did feel a bit guilty over scaring the trousers off a bunch of schoolchildren. Maybe their teacher had managed to work it into her lesson – "And here we see the London madwoman in her natural habitat. . . ." _Most of the city would probably prefer me to be locked up in a zoo at this point,_ she thought, touching the cold bars before her. _Maybe it would be for the best. I could pace and scream and writhe to my heart's content, and be guaranteed food and water besides. I don't even remember the last time I had a proper meal. Or slept in a real bed, come to think of it._ She rubbed the small of her back. _If only I could spin my own cozy cocoon like Caterpillar. . . ._

_"The Queen must be served, Alice. The Queen, in all her guises, must always be served!"_

Of course, it seemed the stress of metamorphosis had turned her oracle even madder than she. Alice frowned deeply as she turned the sentences over and over in her aching mind. _“The Queen must be served”. . .what is she even doing_ alive _? I admit I haven’t exactly been a paragon of sanity as of late, but – before, Caterpillar was the loudest voice outside of Cheshire in favor of killing her. And now he tells me she may be my only hope? He may as well have said that black is white and up is down. How am I supposed to trust_ her _to help me?_

She wiped some crust from the corners of her eyes and put the question aside for another time. Wonderland's riddles were hardly her top priority right now. Much bigger concerns loomed on the horizon – such as how Dr. Bumby would react to her reappearance at Houndsditch. _He’s going to be furious when I get back,_ she thought, running her fingers through her hair to neaten it. _Wandering off again, losing myself to hallucinations. . .he might have already sent notice to Rutledge. What if Dennis and Lum are there when I arrive, waiting to pick me up?_ She shuddered as she pictured the pair, eyes gleaming with mirthful malice as they held out a straitjacket. _And even if they’re not, I’m going to have to deal with another lecture – and probably another round of useless medication. Ugh, if only Victor had been the one to find – Victor!_

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. _Damn it, how is he? Jack Splatter hasn’t gotten to him, has he? Oh no no no – I’ll never forgive myself if he’s hurt –_ She threw herself against the bars. “Excuse me! Have either of you seen Victor anywhere?”

“Said he’d have me job and me ass on a plate! Told him he could have – beg pardon, Alice?” Harry said, blinking as he looked at her.

“Victor Van Dort! I was walking with him to Radcliffe’s house when this whole mess started, but we got separated and I told him to go off without me and – and Jack Splatter’s out for his blood, and I’ve got to know if he’s all right!”

“Oh – yeah, he’s fine,” Harry soothed, giving her a smile. “Came in 'bout a week ago tellin' us you’d gone missin’ and he’d be much obliged if we kept an eye out for you. Also told us about his trouble with Splatter – can’t believe a skinny bloke like him was the one to knock Nebuchadnezzar's folly out!” He laughed a little. “Anyway, we saw to it Splatter had a bit of a talking-to, so your swell’s alive and well. He’ll be very happy to see you again, no doubt about that. Not a day gone by without him droppin' in at some point to check up.” He winked at Alice. “Got yourself a sweetheart, Alice? Someone to look after you?”

Alice was on the verge of protesting when she recalled Victor, coughing and worn from a trip into a burning building, explaining how he'd walked the length and breadth of the East End over an entire week in search of her. “. . .Maybe the latter,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her head in unconscious imitation of him. _Poor boy – why did he have to appoint himself the one to keep an eye on me? As if he hasn’t got enough to worry about already._ “But he’s really just a friend.”

“Oh? Bet you a pound he don't think that way,” Harry said, smirking. “Make him a sweetheart, Alice. That boy’s smitten and no mistake. And he can keep you in grand style, too.”

Alice rolled her eyes. For God’s sake. . .when would these busybodies learn to keep their nose out of her business? Did it _look_ like she was in any condition to consider marriage? _I admit, there's a certain appeal to living with Victor for the rest of my days, but I'm enough on my nut to know that's little more than a pipe dream. Particularly if I can't get Wonderland straightened out. And I wish they'd stop bringing up the family wealth as one of his primary qualifications for suitorhood. I would have liked him just as much as if he'd been a coal heaver._ She folded her arms and glowered at Harry. "Mind letting me loose so I can laugh about this with him?"

Harry shook his head. “If you don’t want to listen to sense. . .you know the way out,” he said, unlocking the cell door. “Go ahead home before Bumby starts talking about me ass again.”

“Right – thank you.” Alice stepped gratefully out into the hall, nodded at Fred, who tipped his hat to her, then made for the stairs. Her previously-combative neighbor snored loudly as she passed, beer and whiskey having finally rendered him insensible to the world. Pity and annoyance warred for dominance in her gut as she glanced at his prone form. She felt bad for the way life had used him and others of his ilk, she really did. . .but such sympathy was tempered by the knowledge that any one of them would inspire more compassion in the general public than she ever would. _Act mad because of excessive drink, and at least some people will throw you a coin or two on the street. Genuinely go mad from grief and a need to discover the truth, and everyone will call for you to be locked away forever. What a world we live in._

She hurried down the stairs and into the main room of the station, eager to escape this hole of misery and broken dreams. The desk sergeants were keeping busy today – every officer had a small queue of miscreants waiting either to make a complaint or be booked. Alice caught a snatch or two of conversation as she maneuvered her way through the crowd:

"Charges? I've got a book."

"This is my day off!"

"What's she done this time?"

"Indecent exposure, cockfighting, abusive language!"

"Sign here – if you can."

"Afternoon, Alice!"

"What – oh, afternoon," Alice said, recognizing the speaker as one of Nanny's whores. A curious meeting – what had she been picked up for? Nanny was usually more careful than that – but Alice wasn't about to stick around and chat. She had places to go and people to see. _Straight back to Houndsditch – let's get Dr. Bumby's ranting and raving over with,_ she thought, looking out the window. _Then, if I'm not overwhelmed with chores – because God knows the great doctor won't have cleaned up after himself – I'll park myself in the foyer and wait for Victor. I wonder if he'll actually–_

“Mow. . . .”

Alice froze. _No. It can’t be. It simply can’t be. How would it – why would it –_ Ignoring the puzzled looks thrown her way, she whirled around toward the front doors. Tucked into the corner beside, carefully grooming itself – 

was the snow-white cat. 

Alice gaped at it. This was – this was getting to be beyond coincidence. The Whitechapel Market, the Billingsgate docks, the street Jack Splatter had threatened her and Victor on, and now the Bow Street lockup – how did this bloody feline always know where to find her? Was she being stalked by the damn thing? _Maybe it's Cheshire in a less-conspicuous guise. . .but Victor saw it too, how does that work. . . ._

The cat licked its tail clean, then stood up and stretched, claws biting into the floorboards. Yellow eyes focused on her, glittering with a quiet intelligence. "Mow," it repeated, then slipped through the half-open door into the square. _Oh no you don’t,_ Alice thought, scowling as she gave chase. _You’re not getting away that easily._

Bright sunshine met her as she exited the gaol – it seemed the world was doing its best to apologize for the upcoming winter by being as pleasant as possible before the first snow. The people of London were only too happy to grant forgiveness, judging by the amount of people out and about. Women in their almost-best dresses and men in smart casual suits promenaded around the square, meeting other couples and talking at their leisure. Alice quietly wished she could be one of them, having a nice wander through the city with Victor at her side. No hallucinations, no worries, no forcing people to run from her in the street – just her and – 

"Meow!"

That accursed fuzzball waiting just past the statue. Alice ran to grab it, but it slipped through her fingers like fresh butter and headed for an adjoining street. Alice followed it, grumbling to herself. "Horrid thing. . .maybe you're Rabbit reincarnated instead, here to get revenge on me accidentally leaving Mr. Bunny behind. It's not like that was my fault! Ugh, once I catch you, I'll – I'll. . . ." 

Her brow wrinkled as her steps slowed. What _would_ she do with the cat? She couldn't take it back to the Home – Dr. Bumby had a strict "no pets" policy (excepting only the occasional quick-dying fish). Even if she tried to make it a little house of its own in the courtyard, there was no guarantee it would stay. Cats went where they would and did as they pleased – she knew that probably better than anyone. And all the frustration in the world wouldn't lead her to knowingly hurt an animal. So what exactly was the point of this pursuit?

The cat noticed her slackened pace and paused at the end of the street, watching her intently. Alice frowned at it. “What do you want from me, you rotten old puss?”

The cat’s tail flicked crossly. "Merow." 

“Don’t give me that – wherever you go, disaster follows,” Alice scolded, folding her arms. “Madness, murder, dismay. . .not one hole you've led me down yet has been to my benefit. My life is waiting for me in the other direction. So why should I bother with you this time?”

"Murrr. . . ." The cat walked up to her and pawed fitfully at her shoes, tail puffed and ears low. It seemed almost anxious now – as if her refusal to go further had spooked it. Alice sighed deeply. Damn her tender heart. “Fine, fine, I’ll at least look,” she muttered.

The cat bounded away again, Alice at its heels. They exited onto a market road, much like the one in Whitechapel, except frequented by a better class of customer. Alice glanced into a stationery shop as they wove through the press of people, admiring a fancy pack of cards set out for display. "I hope this hasn't all been a ruse to convince me to purchase some cat toys. I'm pretty sure I don't have even a sixpence on me."

The cat seemed more interested in the people than the shops, however. It sniffed the hems of a few passing skirts, then meowed and made a beeline for a young lady in dark blue standing by a lamppost, out of the main crush. It rubbed itself against the ruffles of her dress, purring away. “Oh! Hello there,” the woman said, kneeling to pet the puss. “Where did you come from?”

_I could ask the same of you,_ Alice thought, tilting her head. The cat’s chosen affection-giver stood out quite a bit from the usual London crowd. She was slightly taller than Alice – though perhaps that was just the effect of heeled boots – and incredibly pale. Her cheeks had a hint of roses, as did her lips, but other than that she was practically as white as paper. Even her hair, tied up in a neat bun, was so light brown that one could be forgiven for mistaking it as gray. Despite all this, though, she was attractive – blessed with a tight-laced waist and a squashed-heart face, the latter dominated by a pair of huge dark blue eyes. In fact, they were so dark blue you'd almost think they were – black. _Wait a moment. Could it be. . . ?_ Alice wove through the crowd toward the stranger, lifting her hand in greeting. “Excuse me.”

The woman looked up. “Hello,” she said with a smile, straightening and brushing off her skirt. “Is this your cat?”

“No – well, not in the accepted sense,” Alice corrected herself as the cat wound about her legs possessively. “He – or she – just likes to follow me around. I was wondering – are you from Burtonsville, by any chance?”

The woman blinked a few times. “Er, yes. Though I live in Sandford now.” She recovered and held out a hand. “Mrs. Victoria White.”

A smile tugged at Alice's lips. Bingo. “Alice Liddell," she said, shaking the offered appendage before smirking. "Your maiden name wouldn’t happen to be Everglot?”

Mrs. White stepped back, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Yes!” She peered closely at Alice. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

Alice laughed. “No, but I've heard enough about you to feel as if I have. I'm friends with Victor Van Dort," she explained. "He told me everyone in his hometown was as pale as he was, but until now I wasn't sure if I truly believed him. No offense intended.”

Mrs. White brightened. “Oh! It’s fine – the village does seem to be rather afraid of sunshine,” she said, giggling softly. Then her expression sobered. “You’re acquainted with Victor? How is he? Doing well, or–? I don’t mean to pry, but I haven't seen or heard from him since – since he met my husband," she ended in a low voice. "Perhaps it was too much to expect that we could still exchange letters. . . ."

“He’s all right,” Alice reassured her, doing her best to ignore a twinge of guilt. _Well, when I’m not making him worry endlessly about me, he is._ “At least, he was the last time I saw him. He's my closest friend here in the city – easily the sweetest young man I've ever met." She fiddled a bit with her apron. "He’s told me about what happened between you two. If you don’t mind my saying so, it was quite the story.”

“Yes, I would imagine it was,” Mrs. White said, rubbing and squeezing her hands together. “I – I hope you understand I never meant to hurt him. I just – circumstances changed, and I thought he was lost to me forever–”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Alice cut in before the woman started babbling. “Victor's never once blamed you for any of it. And why should he – the whole business seems to have resulted from a mess of misunderstandings rather than actual malice. You hardly strike me as the type who enjoys toying with men's hearts.” She really didn’t – in fact, after finally seeing her in the flesh, Mrs. White reminded Alice quite a lot of a female Victor. _No wonder they liked each other so much at first sight,_ she thought, amused. _They're practically peas in a pod. You know, I bet if things had worked out, they would have made a rather cute couple –_

And for some reason, that thought made her stomach turn. 

Alice touched her belly, startled by her own reaction. What the – now what had brought that on? This wasn't like thinking about Caterpillar being eaten by wasps (guh) – this was something that would have made her best friend happy! Didn't she want Victor to be happy? It wasn't like she had any particular objections to Mrs. White – she seemed very nice indeed from first impressions. Yet the idea of her being Victor's lawfully-wedded wife made her insides twist up into knots. Why? _Well – there is the fact that if he’d married her, we would have never met,_ Alice rationalized, rubbing her arm. _And nobody can blame me for not wanting to think about that. But still, I shouldn't feel_ this _awful over the possibility, especially when it can't even come to pass. . . ._

“I’m glad,” Mrs. White said, pulling Alice's attention away from her body's refusal to just sit down and behave itself. “I was worried half to death he was angry with me. Not that he wouldn't have had cause. . . ." She sighed, then tilted her head. “So he lives here in London now?”

“Yeeess,” Alice said, rocking on her heels as she bit her lip. Oh dear. What was the best way to break the news that someone’s ex-fiancé was currently trapped in a place most people considered just above a madhouse? “We – actually live in the same place, in fact. The, ah, Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth.”

Mrs. White frowned, politely puzzled. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s a home for troubled children – and the occasional adult,” Alice explained, tapping her chest. “Victor’s receiving therapy there from Dr. Bumby.”

“Therapy?” Now Mrs. White looked all-out baffled. “Whatever for?”

Alice raised an eyebrow. “For that delusion he had about seeing the afterlife?” she said pointedly, folding her arms. “Personally I don’t think it’s anything to get that worked up over, but his parents–”

“Delusion?!” Mrs. White cut her off, jaw hanging open. “Why would Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort think that was a _delusion_?! Didn’t they talk to anyone in town?”

Alice stared. “Wait – you – you _believe_ him?” she said, dropping her hands back to her sides.

“Of course I do!” Mrs. White cried, flinging out her arms and nearly smacking a passerby in the face. “Excuse me – I saw Emily with my own two eyes! The whole _village_ did! There was a great parade of living and dead to the church in honor of their wedding! How Victor’s parents could think it was all a lie when he had so many witnesses is beyond me!”

The foundations of the world shifted beneath Alice's feet, crumbling at the edges. “They didn't – he didn't – he – he said they were all terrified of your pastor,” she managed to get out. “Or just – d-didn’t want to believe it after it was over. . . .”

Mrs. White scowled. “That’s outrageous!” she snapped, pacing the street next to her lamppost. “All those people I saw with their dead loved ones. . .how could they not say anything? Especially given what happened in the church!” She whipped her head toward Alice, a few locks of hair escaping from her bun. “Emily saved his life, you know! Lord Barkis would have killed him if she hadn't stepped forward! And she kept me safe during the duel – I might have been crushed by those falling pews if she hadn't pulled me away. Not to mention the poor woman gave up her greatest dream just as it was coming true because she didn’t want me to suffer like she–” 

She stopped abruptly as she became aware of the puzzled crowd that now surrounded them. “Er, forgive me,” she murmured, blushing and lowering her head. “I just – it makes me so _angry_ , hearing that.” Her fists tightened. “Why didn’t he say anything when he came by our house? Did he honestly believe I wouldn't help him?” She shook her head and took a deep, calming breath, before meeting Alice's eyes with a firm gaze. “I know I must sound like a madwoman, but – it happened, Miss Liddell. Every last bit of it. If you need more proof, just ask my parents. It’s the whole reason they fled, after all.”

Alice didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her brain was awhirl, trying desperately to make sense of this sudden shift in the universe. The idea of someone raising the dead was impossible, incredible, insane. . .and yet here was Victor’s ex-fiancee, telling her that she'd been right in the thick of it. Making a spectacle of herself in her passion and fury. Yes, she did sound like a madwoman (and Alice would know) – but the way her eyes burned didn't suggest lunacy at all. _Oh my God. She’s telling the truth._

He’s _telling the truth!_

Alice took a shaky step backward as the earth rocked beneath her. All this time – all this time, and Victor _wasn’t_ delusional! He'd been right to protest his confinement at Houndsditch, right to hold onto his memories with all he had, right to be angry with everyone who called him mad! And she – she’d been one of them. She'd dismissed him, teased him, told him right to his face he was a loon. . . . “I’ve got to talk to him,” she whispered, spinning around. The cat yowled as she accidentally trod on its tail, but she barely noticed. She had to get back to Houndsditch, had to apologize, had to –

Had to –

Was it just her, or had the sun suddenly grown even brighter than before? The world around her blurred and faded to indistinct shapes, drowning in the rush of blinding light. She attempted to raise her hand, hoping to shield her eyes, but the violent rays burrowed into her skin and pinned her in place. Squinting was no help at all, everything was just too intense, too bright – her head began to pound, and her legs went wobbly beneath her–

Mrs. White’s frightened cry of “Miss Liddell?!” was the last thing she heard before everything went black.

***

_Oohhhh. . ._ now  _where am I?_

Alice scrubbed her eyes as consciousness trickled back in. The oppressive brilliance of the sun had gone – in fact, the whole situation had reversed, and she now stood in deep midnight gloom. Looking up, she realized why – instead of sky above her head, there was stone. Turning around slowly revealed she was tucked away in a dark, cool room, as if she were meat set away for curing. _At least I didn't collapse like a sack of potatoes. . .damn, I need something to eat._ She rubbed her temples. _All right, so I’m inside. But inside where, precisely?_

Well, there was light trickling in from the entrance, and a wall beyond – that was as good a start for her investigations as any. Alice cautiously exited her cell, eyes peeled for trouble. On the other side of the arch sat a dank hallway, painted in various shades of brown. Moss and mold grew in large clumps over the walls and cobbles, fed by a steady dripping from the ceiling. A thick metal pipe sprouted dangling lamps as it wound down the center of the hall, pouring pools of yellow light onto the shadowy floor. These were augmented by smaller lamps in round cages poking out of the piled stone at intervals. Between these tiny suns gaped further archways filled with iron bars. Wriggling hands poked out of a couple, fingers grasping at the air as their owners moaned. _Must be the cells beneath Bow Street,_ Alice decided, pulling down her sleeve. _I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. White dragged me back to the station after I fainted on her. Though this seems rather –_ medieval _compared to what I remember from the last time I was down here. . .if I can even trust my eyes,_ she added with a roll of same. _Bloody hallucinations. . .let's get out of here before I do something silly._

She turned away from the groaning criminals, trying to remember how she'd gotten in when Harry had walked her down. To her surprised relief, right behind her was a short flight of stairs leading up to a heavy wooden door. _Well, that was easy!_ She mounted the steps as quick as she could, grabbed the handle–

And felt it rattle uselessly in her hand. _Oh, shock of shocks, it’s locked,_ she thought sarcastically, giving it a little kick. _I guess it's justified; they don't want anybody escaping. . .but what about those of us who need to? If I was meant to be a prisoner, I would have been sealed in like the others! Maybe there's a matching exit down the other end. . . ._ She turned around again and peered along the hall. Things blurred a little after the first few feet, but she could just make out a hint of something red lurking at the far end. _A warning light, perhaps? For the most dangerous criminals? That might mean there's an officer on guard who can help me. He's unlikely to be as understanding as Harry and Fred, but maybe that's a good thing. Means he'll want me out of his sight sooner._

Destination chosen, Alice started down the hall at a trot, keeping an eye out for anyone who looked trustworthy. The prisoners' groans grew louder as she passed, filthy fingers attempting to snag her arm or apron strings. "Shush, you lot," she scolded, keeping well away. This was the home of the worst trash the East End had to offer. Hero complex or not, she certainly wasn't about to start helping them. _I don't care what you try,_ she thought, dodging around another man's feeble grab. _I'm not helping some murderer or pimp escape just because I’m having a bit of trouble telling what’s –_

_What’s. . . ._

Her feet stopped dead in their tracks as horror flooded her body. The redness she'd seen before now stretched out before her – and while it was a caution, it wasn't for dangerous criminals. No, this red warned that the bricks around you were slowly melding into flesh, horrible pink slimy _flesh_ – that the human hands that had reached out to you were being replaced by wet, pulsating tentacles – and that the stink of gas leaking from the pipe was now the scent of fresh blood – _No. No, this isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening – she can’t be here, she can’t, she can’t – she’s dead, she’s_ dead _, you_ killed _her –_

Her first instinct was to whip around and bolt back the way she’d come. But what good would that do? She was no lockpick, she couldn't open the door to safety – and down in her gut, she knew that, no matter how much she pounded, no one would ever come to rescue her. Similarly, releasing a prisoner to help her was out of the question. Even if she did have the means, they'd likely just attack her the moment they were free. There were no convenient windows to squeeze through, no holes she could break open. The only way to go was forward. Alice swallowed and squeezed her fists, looking up at the twisted heart-shaped arch that marked the boundary between sanity and madness. “The Queen must be served,” she whispered, and stepped through.

It was exactly as horrible as she remembered from her previous assault on the Queen's palace. The walls were the most lurid shade of pink imaginable, overgrown with thick spiderwebs of quivering muscle. The ground squished beneath her feet, a mass of mysterious and unnameable tissue. Arteries and veins branched out across the ceiling like creeper vines, dripping blood and staining her shoes and apron. The belly of the beast to be sure, but a very poorly-designed one. _Darwin would be appalled._

A slithering like snakes curling over each other reached her ears. Glancing right and left, she saw more cells like the ones she'd left behind – heart-shaped, of course, and barred with pink-tinted iron. No friendly lamps lit the inside of these prisons – instead, what confronted her was a disturbing pitch-black void, an abyss ready to swallow her up if she stared at it too long. _Must have borrowed that from Victor's nightmares – as if my imagination needed any more ideas,_ she thought as she gingerly made her way down the meaty passageway. The slithering followed, tracking her every step. _Just remember, Alice, it's not real. It’s not real. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real –_

Coldness wrapped around her wrist and tugged her sharply to the side. Alice screamed and ripped away from the offending appendage, nearly tumbling into a puddle of bile. “Go _away_!” she shrieked, hugging herself. “You’re not _real_!”

The tentacles seemed to disagree, writhing against the rusted metal holding them captive. Another set, pinker and fatter, tried to snatch her from behind, and a third stretched themselves to their limits from a ceiling cell. Alice dodged and stumbled away, wildly tearing at her own back with a hand. “Come on, come on – 'swift and keen and always ready for service,' Cheshire said! Well serve me now, you wretched Blade! If I'm seeing things like this, I must be in Wonderland! Yves, you horrid creature, make yourself known and surrender my weapon!”

Nothing. Merely the knot holding her apron in place met her questing fingers. The tentacles slurped against each other, preparing themselves for another attack. Left helpless to defend herself against them, Alice did the only thing she could do – run like hell. _Oh God, oh God – what did I do to bring her back?_ she thought frantically as she slipped and slid her way past the pulsing growths. _I’m sorry, Wonderland, I’m so sorry!_

Abruptly, the hallway opened up, walls receding until she seemed to be inside a great tower. Alice skidded to a stop as the floor disappeared before her, plunging over a ledge in a waterfall of red. Here, stone once again asserted its dominance as a building material, although flesh still clung to the masonry like lichen to a tree. A diseased tongue of a walkway extended out into the center of the space, tasting the rotten air. Alice ventured cautiously out onto it, then peered up and down. The tower seemed to go on forever in both directions, webs of ligaments and skin falling away to yawning darkness above and below. Confusion began to take over from fright. What did she do now? There wasn’t anywhere else to go –

_Oh no._

The chamber rumbled as the biggest, fattest, most disgustingly pink tentacles she'd ever seen in her life emerged from the shadows. They writhed toward her, throbbing steadily, glistening with sweat, ready to squeeze and suffocate better than any anaconda. Alice stumbled backward, hands held before her, trying for her Teapot Cannon, her Hobby Horse, _anything_ that might slow them down even the tiniest bit – 

Everything abruptly bounced as the walkway shook beneath her, sending her stomach up her throat. Moments later, the decaying stone snapped free of its moorings, dropping her into the abyss before she even had the chance to scream. _Well, at least the tentacles can't get me,_ she thought as they waved uselessly above her head. _Poor comfort, though._ She glanced down the flesh-laden tunnel. _What’s waiting for me at the bottom of this rabbit hole? Jabberspawn? Lava Monsters? Card Guards? Actually, at this height, just the floor is lethal enough. . . ._ Grimacing, she closed her eyes and braced herself. Blood-tainted wind whipped at her face, filling her nostrils with the scent of approaching death – 

And then, out of nowhere, it was replaced with clear, fresh air.

Alice's eyes popped open with a start. The tower was gone, along with the flesh and the tentacles and anything else that hinted at the presence of the Queen. Instead, she was tumbling end over end through an ocean of blue sky. Below her, huge globs of fluffy white clouds sailed lazily over a vast expanse of green. Above, the sun shone bright and fine. _What – but how – I'm not complaining, but still –_

Something huge and flat whistled by, swooping through the air like a rectangular hawk. Another followed close, then another, a swirling parade of red and black and white. It was the familiar sight of a pair of dark clovers gracing the center of one of the "birds" that kicked Alice's brain back into gear.  _Playing cards! But how are they blessed with motion when they lack arms, legs, and head?_

The question didn't seem to bother the cards at all. They streaked across the brilliant blue, Fives of Clubs dancing with Eights of Spades, Threes of Diamonds whirling around Sixes of Hearts, and Jacks and Tens of all suits playing hopscotch. Alice marveled at the scene. _It's like all the people in the world threw a pack of cards into the air, intending to play a massive game of fifty-two pickup, only for the cards to decide they liked up here and would rather spend the rest of their lives high in the stratosphere. Oh, but that's ridiculous._ She smirked and giggled. _But then again, what isn't around here?_

Well, far be it for her to shirk a bit of fun. As she plummeted into a roving hand of Aces and Queens, sending them flying every which way, she managed to flip herself upright. A moment's concentration with her arms spread, and the tiny supernova exploded deep within her again, bringing back her favorite blue dress and (properly) bloodied apron. She flicked her wrist experimentally, and the Vorpal Blade appeared in her hand, blade gleaming in the sun. _Much better,_ she thought as her skirts billowed out. _Now maybe I can actually defend myself against threats!_

Of course, now that she had her arsenal at her disposal again, all her enemies seemed to have vanished. There was nothing in this domain except her, the clouds, and the cards. Alice drank in the last's aerial acrobatics with glee. They were better than a circus – tumbling end over end in the breeze, racing across the sky in strict formation, dipping into and out of the clouds – "Oh!"

And, not too far away, building literal card castles, complete with turrets and battlements on the walls. Alice spun and kicked her feet, trying to get closer for a better view. "That's absolutely amazing! Papa would have been thrilled!"

Sudden solidity beneath her feet finally pulled her gaze away. A few friendly Clubs had slid beneath her, forming a path through the clear blue sky. Alice sucked in a deep breath, gathering her wits. “Not what I expected at all,” she murmured. Then she grinned, heart light and relieved. “But I will _certainly_ take a Cardbridge over Queensland.”

Cardbridge

_Thump. Thump! THUMP!_

_Alice snagged Mr. Bunny before his teacup upset itself in his lap, dumping water all over his chair. She sighed and hugged him tight. "The undergraduates must have left," she told him, glad of an opportunity to show off one of her favorite long words. "Lizzie only stomps like that when she knows Papa won't scold her for it."_

_Mr. Bunny suggested that they ought to go see why her sister was banging up the stairs hard enough to ruin someone's midday meal. "I bet I know already," Alice said, even as she stood up and ventured out into the hall. Lizzie was standing with her head against her door, fists clenched and teeth grinding. Alice approached her cautiously.“Was it the Awful One again?”_

_“Yes, it was,” Lizzie growled. “He_ would _be part of the company after I had to admit everything to Papa. . .who, bless his heart,_ tried  _to keep him away. Told me to hide in the garden and he'd keep the bastard monologuing. I thought near the end I was home free, but just as I was preparing to sneak back inside, there he was! Papa says he claimed a need for the toilet – probably was hoping I'd be in it again!" She shuddered. "I should have known he'd turn up – he follows me everywhere. I’d compare him to a puppy if that wouldn’t be an insult to even the ugliest breeds.”_

_“Did he hurt you, Lizzie?” Alice asked, all concern as she searched her sister’s skin for bruises. "Did he – 'manhandle' you?" She wasn't sure what that meant, but it certainly sounded unpleasant._

_“Trapped me against the wall and tried to slip his hand up my skirt,” Lizzie said, looking green. “On and on about how I needed to give him a chance, that we were meant to be. . . **claimed I’d stolen his heart! 'Trifling with his affections!' Creepy sod! Touching me. . . .** ” She shivered, rubbing the tops of her arms as if she were cold. “ **Told Papa to never invite him to tea again!** ”_

_“I wish Papa would just expel him,” Alice muttered sulkily, clutching her rabbit to her middle._

_“Me too, but he can't, sadly. For all his faults, the arse_ does _get good grades.” Lizzie shook her head. “But he's been expelled from the house at least. Though if that will really stop him. . .we'll have to see if the bounder tries jumping the fence.” She took a deep breath, then straightened up and gave Alice a smile. “Enough about him already – fancy a game of chess with your big sister?”_

Alice opened her mouth to say yes, but a breeze suddenly stirred her hair, and a herd of racing clouds swallowed Lizzie whole. A few blinks reminded her that she was twenty, not eight, and that she was currently perched atop a close-knit platform of Aces of Hearts, not standing in the upstairs hall. She sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, for. . .a place as beautiful as this should have memories to match," she complained to a passing Nine of Diamonds. "Not an episode from the Saga of the Unwanted Suitor.”

How long had it been since those words had passed her lips? Probably not since before the fire. The Saga of the Unwanted Suitor – her mother had named it such after Lizzie had complained mightily over tea one day – had been a stain on the last few months the Liddell family had enjoyed alive. Arthur being the Dean of Christ Church had given his wife and children a comfortable life in one of the nicer parts of England, but it had also given poor Lizzie rather a lot of trouble with the local undergraduates. Being the pretty older daughter of an important school figure had its disadvantages – it seemed not a week would pass without some fool showing up at their house, wanting a wife as well as a diploma. Lizzie had never been impressed with any of them (and had declared so loudly and often), but one in particular had caused her quite a lot of extra grief in the weeks before her demise. Alice couldn’t remember who it was precisely – the undergraduates had always been a blur of loud voices and insincere smiles to her, and she hadn't thought about the Saga since its end in flames – but her sister's disgust with the cad's behavior was clear enough in her head. _Poor Lizzie – to be stalked and harassed so not long before her death!_ Alice thought, hugging herself since she could no longer hug her sibling. _I wouldn’t want some of my last memories to include fighting off the attentions of an idiot who didn’t know how to accept a “no.” Hopefully she’s long-forgotten him by this point._ She made a face. _I wish I could still!_

She leapt off the platform, catching a ride on another traveling Ace before returning via a prolonged float to the main path of Clubs. _Suppose it’s only right that I collect that particular memory now, though,_ she thought, jogging along as they slid under her feet one by one. (The Twos seemed most eager to help, she noticed, followed by the Fives. Perhaps they were her lucky numbers?) _At the tender age of eight, I barely understood what my sister was going through. Now I can finally say that I know what it’s like to be hounded repeatedly about marriage. At least my hounding is of a much more good-natured sort, and involves my best friend rather than some creepy prick._ She smirked as she rounded a corner. _What a pair we’d make at the altar – him fidgeting, forgetting words, constantly waiting for either the dead to rise or a vicious murderer to make an unwelcome appearance, and me either screaming at nothing, drooling in catatonia, or attempting to attack the guests. Yes, Nanny and Constable Hightopp, I’ll book a chapel right away!_

Even as she thought that, though, she found her imagination rebelling, preferring to picture a more settled wedding scene. She’d never been one to dream about marriage as a child – ordinary games of House bored her, and while she liked fancy dresses and flowers she felt she didn’t need a pretend husband to enjoy them – but. . .it was actually kind of fun to visualize her and Victor play-acting the old familiar ceremony. After all, they'd have to get the gossiping biddies and well-meaning interlopers off their back _somehow_ if they ever wanted any peace again. Why, she could almost see it now. . .her in a white version of the Deluded Depths gown, delicate slippers on her feet and a crown of orange blossoms (or did she prefer lilies and roses? What the hell, make it all three) in her hair; him in that charcoal-colored suit he favored so much, red waistcoat freshly cleaned and blue tie knotted just so. They stood at the altar of the old stone church in Burtonsville, light trickling through the stained glass windows and painting rainbows on the floor. Victor's fingers curled around hers as they waited for – oh, no, they couldn't have Pastor Galswells as their officiant! The man would never shut up about how the groom was damned! Lock him away in his quarters, please, so he couldn't ruin things. But then who would actually marry them? She knew no one in the clergy, and she doubted Victor did either. . .ah wait, of course! Elder Gutknecht! Surely he wouldn't object to them contacting him for such a solemn sacrament–

_“Victor, how on earth does a skeleton wear glasses without a nose or ears? Does he magic them on?”_

. . .Or maybe he would. Alice slowed to a stop in front of a drifting Two, fingers twisting together as fresh guilt assaulted her insides. Damn it, why hadn’t she been a bit more open-minded? Yes, it was an incredible story to make herself believe, Victor himself had admitted that, but – half a year of sticking so firmly to that "delusion," without otherwise seeming mad at all, should have started to turn her opinion. For God's sake, she'd know him longer than his ex-fiancee (her stomach lurched again, much to her frustration – _come on, you’ve known about her for months! It’s not like he’s going to stop being friends with you now that she’s shown up again_ ), and she'd needed said fiancee to convince her of his sanity! That was simply shameful. Especially when you compared it to how kind had Victor been about putting up with her forays into Wonderland. No matter how mental her latest sojourn, he'd never complained about the strain she put him under, and he'd absorbed all her tales with nary a – all right, that wasn't exactly true. He'd made comments like “Sparrows with the heads of cows? Alice, that's officially odd,” and “Is there anyone in Wonderland whose name _isn’t_ a literal description of what they are?” But that was the extent of his teasing (and it was all well-deserved). Otherwise, he took her fears over the fates of imaginary creatures almost as seriously as she did. He'd recognized just how important this world was to her. She couldn't have returned the favor?

_You did, technically_ , an inner voice reminded her.  _You thought his world imaginary too, but you didn't tease him overmuch about it. You even said that you thought it a lovely afterlife and that you wished your parents and sister were in it._

_Yes, but I made it quite clear that I didn't believe him, and that's the one thing he wanted most,_ Alice argued.

_He seemed happy enough with your treating it as a pleasant fiction everyone should leave him alone over. Hasn't he said before that he'd deal with everyone thinking him mad so long as they let him remember in peace?_

_Yes, but – I wanted a chance to apologize before I was dragged back here,_ Alice thought, scuffing her boot against the Club.  _Hell, forget that, I just wanted a chance to_ see _him again. I know time is of the essence when it comes to the damnable Train, but I'm allowed not to like that it keeps me away from my best friend._ She touched her arm.  _It almost hurts, being away from him this long._

_No argument there,_ her inner self replied.  _But Wonderland needs us, and dilly-dallying just locks us here all the longer. We'll just have to make do for now._

_With what? The fact that I've probably embarrassed myself in front of an old friend of his? Possibly lowering her opinion of him in the bargain?_

_The woman who knew him for a day, then left him for another? That's your definition of an 'old friend?'_

_You're me – you heard how fondly they speak of each other._

_True._ Her inner self gave her a grin worthy of Cheshire.  _So perhaps it's best our mind lost its moorings when it did. Her finding him less attractive seems a most desirable fate._

_You are being stupid and small,_ Alice snapped , shrinking to punctuate her words. _We know there's no chance of them getting back together. And even if there was, it's not our place to stop them! I don't care that – that–_

Her brain screeched to a halt right there, apparently afraid of going over whatever precipice lay at the other end of "that." Why did it insist on trying to hide things? _Oh, just go away,_ Alice thought tiredly. _I'm busy and I can't pretend to be two people like I used to._

_Hmph. Well then, put those feet to use and see if you can't find us a pleasant thought or two. I'm tired of all this doom and gloom._

_Me too._ Shoving her imaginary twin aside, Alice proceeded onto the next hovering card with a soft grumble. "This had _better_ be worth all the suffering.”

***

_Come on come on I can make it I can make it–_ “Yes! Finally!”

Alice patted herself down, making sure there were no butterfly-shaped holes in her skirt (or flesh), then glared at the Ace of Spades now blocking her path backward. "You're supposed to be the card of Death, I believe. Not the card of what must be a bad prank."

The Ace didn't answer, of course, but Alice was half-sure the eyes of some of the face cards higher up on the walls shifted in her direction. "I've a right to complain," she told them, folding her arms. "I was enjoying myself tremendously exploring that first card castle, and then this one had to go and spoil the fun. You tell _me_ what the point is of having a door that requires two pressure pads and perfect split-second timing to open." She huffed. "If it weren't for my flutterby trick, I'd be running back to try again for a _fourth_ time! And that's not even counting the two Clockwork Bombs I wasted before I realized my crayon-wielding guide had gotten as confused as me and put her rabbit symbol on the wrong side!" She looked around and grumbled. "And what do I get for all my fuss? A single room with a handful of teeth, a trio of paper balloons, and – and I'm going to have to forgive it all, because that's a butterfly, isn't it?"

Shredding the balloons confirmed it – among the dropped teeth and roses, the glittering insect happily twirled. Alice couldn't help but smile, previous frustrations draining away. She'd hoped she'd find one of Victor's memories here. It was as close as she could come to the real thing.  _Of course, a theme of this world has been gorgeous scenery mixed with rather depressing bits of the past,_ she reminded herself.  _Lizzie and that wretched suitor, Bumby decrying light for Lethe. . .damn it, I don't want that to hold with his. If I wanted to see Victor in distress, I could just wake up right now._

Her brain didn't take the subtle hint.  _Nothing for it, then,_ she thought, and gripped a wing.

_"I think that one looks like a lion."_

_Alice squinted at the cloud, eyes wandering over its curves and puffs. “Yes, I think you’re right,” she murmured. “Although it’s a rather mangy lion. Hasn’t got much of a mane.”_

_“Probably some man’s shaved it to line coat collars,” Victor said, letting his arm drop. “'Exotic,' right? I know my mother would buy one.”_

_Alice snickered. “Good point. They’ll do anything for a pound in this city.”_

_“Don’t I know it.”_

_Alice smiled at him, then leaned back against the grass, letting a companionable silence fall. Today had officially been another one of their good days. Not only were her hallucinations not bothering her for once (a rare event she was planning to celebrate with some manner of cake before they left), she hadn't even had to deal with the filth of Whitechapel for the vast majority of it. Victor had snapped not long after breakfast, declaring that he was going to visit a real park today or die trying. "Well, there's always Hyde Park," Alice had suggested on a whim – largely because that was the only one she knew the proper name of. Victor had lit up, then surprised her with his response: "Oh, that's a great idea, Alice! I haven't been there in quite a while. Come with me and we'll make an adventure of it."_

_Alice had demurred at first – Hyde Park was in the better part of the city, and she was quite certain maids and madwomen weren't welcome. But Victor had pleaded with her to change her mind, giving her those puppy-dog eyes that were impossible to refuse. "It won't be nearly as fun without you. . .and besides, given how they mock me around here, I probably look respectable enough for the both of us. Please, Alice?" And so she'd agreed (after clearing it with Dr. Bumby, of course)._

_And now – well, she was quite glad that he’d convinced her that it would be worth the cab fare and the risk of disapproving looks. It was a pleasure to be somewhere that wasn't completely choked by smog and trash. They'd spent a solid hour and a half just wandering through the grass and trees, pointing out unusual leaves and interesting animals to each other. They'd also made a stop at the Serpentine, tossing pebbles into the blue depths from the bridge, then searching for skipping stones along the banks. Victor had found one and managed five skips down the river, a feat which had left him with a certain spring in his step. Trotters from a fairly respectable-looking salesman had served as lunch, and not long after that they'd plopped down to watch the clouds drift through the (sort-of) blue sky. The ground was soft beneath their bodies, providing a lovely couch for gazing upward – and probably causing awful stains on their clothes. Alice didn’t mind, though. A day like today was worth a little extra laundry. This was as close as either of them was going to get to visiting the countryside for a while, and she intended to enjoy it to the fullest._

_"Caw! Caw!"_

_A pair of crows suddenly swooped over them, beating their wings frantically against the air. Victor started, then glanced over at her with a tiny smile. “Well, someone’s in a hurry.”_

_“Things to do and trash to find, likely," Alice replied. "Or perhaps they weren't crows at all, but some other unfortunate species caught in the latest blast of factory smoke. In which case they're probably trying to get out of London as quickly as possible.”_

_"I can’t blame them if they are,” Victor said, sighing. “I know if I had wings, I’d be out of here as fast as they could carry me.”_

“ _Same here,” Alice nodded. She tilted her head at him. “Someone as enthusiastic about butterflies as you must think about flying a lot.”_

“ _I do,” Victor admitted, eyes far away and face peaceful. **“Flying’s always been one of my greatest dreams. Soaring and floating through the air, able to go wherever I please, no cares, no worries. . . .”** He turned his head back to the sky, biting his lip as his happiness fled. **“Too bad it’ll never come true. Silly dream, really.”**_

“Not silly at all, Victor,” Alice murmured as the clouds above them were replaced with cards, and the castle faded back into existence around her. “Not in the slightest.” Flight had been a wish of hers too, ever since she’d first seen a bird. That's why she'd driven her mother to distraction on rainy days by jumping off tables and chairs, and why her skirts in Wonderland were blessed with such incredible powers of lift. She jumped into the air and bounced her way across the room, spreading a cushion of feathers across the Spades and Hearts with a giggle. "If only I could teach you how to do this, Victor! It's not quite flight, but it's more than close enough!"

Fun had, she leaned against a red-tinted card back and closed her eyes, letting the rest of the memory play out. Victor's confession about his dream had led to a discussion of where they'd actually go if they only had the power. Alice had expressed her desire to see the fabled New York City in the States ("Yes, I know it's another city, but it would at least be a different one – and I've heard such stories about the people and the places!"), and Victor had admitted an interest in seeing Paris before he died (“or afterward, if it’s easier to travel Downstairs,” he’d joked). Then there was the Wild West, and the Amazon rainforest, and darkest Africa, and closed-off Japan. . .and before they'd known it, it was time for tea and they'd had to rush back to the Home so as not to upset their doctor. The cheerfulness of the whole experience had lingered with her for the rest of the week, and Victor had never looked healthier and happier. Even now, that single perfect day was almost enough to balance out a fortnight of pain and despair. _If only I could have summoned up the Deadtime Watch, and frozen everything just at that moment. . . ._

She picked up the last of the teeth, then walked through the miniature castle’s (thankfully wide-open) back door. A pair of Twos of Clubs waited for her, forming the start of another path. Alice went to the side of the first and looked down at the mottled white and green below. The drop was massive, more than enough to kill, but she didn’t feel the slightest twinge of fear. Instead, there was just a surge of excitement at being so high up. She lifted her head to the cards that flew in loops and curlicues across the bright blue of the sky, dashing through the meandering clouds and generally being delightfully absurd. The air was crisp and clean, the sun warm on her cheeks. The whole world overflowed with a sense of absolute freedom. “You would love it here, wouldn’t you Victor?” she whispered. “No trees or grass, but I think you’d forgive their absence just this once.” She touched the edge of the card with her toe and imagined sitting there with him, side by side, legs dangling in the open air, watching the cards and feeling like nothing in the world could ever bother them again. . . . It would be heaven. It truly would.

But Victor wasn’t here, and she had a job to do. _And someone to visit,_ Alice reminded herself with a wince. Her eyes unwillingly found the wall of the castle again, and the crowned heart that stained the reverse of every Club, Diamond, Spade, and Heart. A grim reminder that the peace of this world was only a temporary reprieve. She ran her fingers through her hair, squeezing her eyes closed briefly. Why did such a lovely place have to lead to such an awful one? Couldn’t Cardbridge have been linked to a realm _other_ than Queensland? _Maybe, after I see what’s going on with the Queen, I can make it so it goes somewhere else. I don't care if cards are her domain. It may be her kingdom, but it’s_ my _bloody world._

With an annoyed sigh, she proceeded down the path that formed card by card underneath her feet. _Well, I've got a little time here yet. Enough to soak up some more peace and contentment. Something to keep me going through the realm of flesh and blood. And you know what? Once I leave the Queen behind, I don't care where Wonderland, or that blasted cat, tries to drag me next. I'm going to find Victor, and I'm going to tell him every last detail about this place. It's not much recompense for everything I've put him through – especially with Mrs. White's latest revelation, ugh – but it's all I can give. Hopefully he'll find it adequate._

***

“Oh no – this is it? Really?”

The blue-spiraled mushroom silently asserted that it was. Alice pouted and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. This just plain wasn't fair. She'd barely been here any time at all – certainly not long enough to satisfy her craving for adventure. There were so many other castles floating in the distance, towers reaching toward the sky, just begging to be explored! Not to mention that it was just so generally _pleasant_ here – when was the last time she'd had "pleasant" in Wonderland? Even the Vale had contained pockets of Ruin upon her arrival. This realm was pure and untouched. Why couldn’t she stay a little longer?

_Because the longer I stay here, the longer I’m making a fool of myself in the real world,_ she reminded herself, shaking her head. _And the more likely a certain monarch is getting into a position to wreak havoc upon my mind once more. You knew when you started this detour wouldn't last forever. Time to buckle down and be a warrior again._

Even with that scolding, though, it was hard to get her feet to move. She lingered by one of the playfully-leaning turrets of Spades and Clubs, gazing out at the vast blue. The cards still whirled and soared, a magnificent dance without beginning or end. Beyond that were the castles, and beyond them? Who knew. Maybe a few last bits of Hatter's factory, or a tiny chunk of unscathed Vale. Anything was possible here. She sucked in a deep breath, fingers idly tracing the bumps of the Three next to her. "No matter what else my mind may deny me – I hope I never forget this." Then, before she could succumb to the urge to dart backward and see if she could trick the cards into forming a fresh path, she turned, dashed to the mushroom, and bounced.

The by-now-familiar blank white fog enveloped her as she fell back to earth, holding her safely in its grip while the world restructured itself. Then her feet touched down – on a floor of Hearts?

For a split-second, Alice was excited. Perhaps she'd misunderstood the mushroom, perhaps this was a shortcut across to the next castle or the start of an even grander slide – then the rest of the world came into being, and proved her initial instincts correct. The brilliance of the summer sky was gone, replaced by a dull wintery haze that tinted everything in sight the color of dirt. The sun did not burn bright and proud here – instead, it pushed weakly through the thin clouds, as if afraid to show its face. The cards around her stood tall and firm as ever, but were dingy and wan thanks to the faded light. Only the Hearts stood out, the redness of their suit's symbol smoldering in the musty air. Alice turned away from a slit-eyed Jack to see what lay ahead. A slide did in fact await her, but it was a far cry from the ones she'd enjoyed in Cardbridge. This one was a slope of heavy gray stone, splattered with globs of smoking Ruin and – _are those dried-out eyeballs?! Eugh. . . ._ The world had been turned inside-out, with everything pleasurable now made distressing and disgusting.

_Well – not quite everything,_ she allowed, lifting a now-gloved hand before her face. _New realm, new dress, as always._ This one had clearly taken its inspiration from the castles she'd so reluctantly left, making her a vision in red, black, and gold. Glittering hearts paraded down her chest encased in crimson stripes, and circled the edges of her dark bow. Her apron was cut in a rough diamond shape, and topped with an upside-down Spade. Below that, the Chesslands got a thought with a checkerboard of gold and black. Craning her neck, Alice saw that even Hollow Yves had taken up the theme, his skull having been carved into a scowling white heart. She smiled and did a little twirl, letting her skirts floof out. This wasn't a style she would have chosen for herself, but it was quite beautiful all the same. A gown truly fit for a – 

Queen.

Alice slowed to a stop, the dungeon of meat and mucus vividly pink and wet in her mind's eye. She still couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. The Queen of Hearts, alive again. How could she have let her mind collapse so completely as to allow _that_? The Queen was everything she hated about herself – her madness, her darkness, her – her spoiled-bratness. She’d spent the longest, hardest year of her life working to cleanse such taint from her psyche. Dueling monster upon monster, facing bitter cold and boiling heat, enduring vicious teeth and claws and tongues, all to face– 

_the stygian void that lurked behind the Queen's throne. Alice stood, battered but still unbeaten, upon a blasted hunk of rock hovering in the black, watching the bulging, monstrous tumor that had once been a woman lurch up before her from the emptiness. The Queen greeted her with a scream that would have deafened a Boojum, but Alice barely flinched. She'd rid the creature of almost all her weapons, and now she just needed one last shot. . . ._

_The belly-mouth gaped wide again, and Alice took her chance. The Vorpal Blade whipped end over end, an unerring missile seeking the monarch's lifeblood. There was a rather unsatisfying "spluch" as it made contact – but then the Queen slumped, shrieking defiance one last time before her misshapen flesh burst apart into bloody chunks–_

And that was supposed to have been the end of it. Her happy ending, in fact. She’d walked out of that arena, and the asylum, drained but optimistic. Killing the Queen hadn't guaranteed her sanity, but it was a very solid start, she'd thought. Surely she was due a bit of good luck after over a decade of misery. So she'd walked through the gates of Rutledge with the highest of hopes for her future.

_And we see where that got me,_ Alice thought with a sigh, rubbing her face. She'd been disabused of most of her illusions after a mere week at Houndsditch – well, those that hadn't started trying to engage her in conversation. The world had proved itself a cruel and cold place, one where the battle to survive was never-ending. But even with her cynicism and gloom growing by the day, she'd clung to the memory of her victory, positive that at least she'd made that much of a difference for herself. Now, even that was in doubt. Had the Vorpal Blade flown as true as she'd hoped? Had the Queen ever _truly_ died? Or had she just been biding her time, waiting for the opportune moment to make another bid for power? Alice bit her lip, shivering. Had she been destined to return to Rutledge from the moment she left it?

_No,_ she thought, brow furrowed and jaw tight. _I promised myself I would never return, and I intend to keep that promise. Perhaps my ending will always be bittersweet, but I can at least stop the bitterness from taking over. The Queen won’t send me back into the festering grip of the asylum again! I will be more than a ranting lunatic or a mindless vegetable! If I have to kill her a hundred times over, I will!_

_. . .Then again, Caterpillar hinted that she’d changed. In my latest experience, change is about as horrible as you can get, but – is it possible that she could be an ally in my fight against the Ruin? The Duchess and the Hatter changed sides with ease after I slaughtered them in cold blood. Neither were particularly helpful, but they never made any attempts against my person. Could it be she’s back to her old self – the one who ranted and raved but didn’t actually care if any of her subjects lost their heads?_

The tentacles slithered back into her mind, pulsing with rage. _. . .No, definitely not. But I suppose I should at least give her the chance to speak for herself. Caterpillar seemed insistent on my trying that much. And if she’s still bent on dominating the whole of Wonderland and damn the consequences. . .well, my Blade will be happy to drink her blood once more._

Purpose reaffirmed, Alice walked to the edge of the grimy platform, gazing out at the horizon as she prepared to make her way down the slide. The stormy haze prevented her from seeing much, but she could make out brown hills lumping up in the distance. And what looked like the fossilized remains of old trees and oversized vines curling around the –

Wait. Those weren’t vines. Those were _tentacles_. Alice arched an eyebrow, taking in the tattered remains of the Queen’s favorite appendages. “Interesting development,” she mumbled, dropping onto the slide and smashing an eyeball with her feet. “What’s really going on with you, Your Majesty?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice commenting that she'd like Victor just as much if he were a coal-heaver is a shout-out to a favorite children's book of mine, The Ordinary Princess. The title character says as much about a boy she likes.


	17. One Day They'll Actually DRINK The Tea

October 22nd, 1875

Bow Street Police Station, London's East End, England

4:26 P.M.

_"So – why are you interested in this job, Master Van Dort?"_

_"Well, sir, I'm rather good with numbers, I take direction well, and I'm used to sitting in one place for hours at a time – I draw, you see. Usually live studies of interesting insects; I've made dozens of drawings of butterflies. . .er, a-anyway, I'm very skilled with a pen, is what I'm getting at. And if for some reason you need me to travel, heh, I've practically traversed the entire city on foot by now. I believe I know just about where everything is."_

_"That doesn't exactly answer my question."_

_"Er – um – I-I'm hoping to build up my savings? I need a new place to live, and–"_

_"Your family mansion isn't good enough for you?"_

_". . .Sir?"_

_"Where exactly did you get to be 'good with numbers?'"_

_"I – I did the ledgers for my father for a while–"_

_"Exactly. Your incredibly wealthy father with his ever-growing fish empire. To which you are heir. We don't need rich young men looking to 'slum' around London wasting our time, not when we have such an important position to fill. Good day, Master Van Dort."_

_"But – I'm – I'm n-not – I really do want–"_

_"Good. Day."_

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

Victor blinked, snapping back to reality to find a lady – in the absolute loosest sense of the term – glaring at him from the step just above. "Sorry," he said, moving out of her way.

The woman huffed and swished past him. "Lousy swells, think they own the street," she muttered.

"Swells have feelings too, you know," Victor grumbled after her as she disappeared down the lane. "Ugh. . .maybe it's time to take all my jackets and waistcoats and see what the local seamstresses will give me for them. A good pair of suspenders would make me less of a target, right?"

Another passerby exiting the station gave him an odd look. _Right – most people don't question themselves out loud,_ Victor reminded himself, hurrying to catch the door before it swung closed. _Besides, you need to focus – you're here on much more important business than work clothes!_ He swallowed as he entered the headquarters of the local police, mounting the steps up to the main floor. _Could this be the day_ _? I'm due a bit of luck after that disastrous interview. . .if you could even call it that. Oooh, please let this be the day. Please let them te_ _ll me 'oh yes, we have Alice, let_ _us_ _escort you to her cell so you can take her home_ _._ _' Not that I think she'll be eager to see Dr. Bumby. . .but then, who would be?_ _Lousy crow. . . ._

The front desks were busy today, manned by roughly half a dozen officers, all scribbling away in various notebooks. Victor shook his head as he looked down the line. It still amazed him just how alike all of the London bobbies were. Broad shoulders, square faces, thick stubble, heavy brows. . .and the uniforms just made it worse. If not for the differences in hair and eye color, you'd think they were sextuplets. Victor made his way to the nearest who was free, distinguished from his fellows by his stubble being light brown and his top hat being pulled so low over his eyes Victor half-wondered if he was sneaking a nap. "Excuse me," he said, fighting the urge to twist his tie. "My name is Victor Van Dort. I'm here to inquire if–"

"I know you," the officer cut in, pushing his brim up with a smudgy finger. "You're that fellow who keeps asking about Alice."

"Heh – guilty as charged," Victor confirmed with a faint, anxious laugh. Well, he'd been in here often enough – no surprise he was becoming famous among the men. "Have you seen her?"

"Oh yes," the officer nodded. "A couple of hours ago, in fact. Brought her in after she nearly scared the trousers off some wee ones."

Victor's heart nearly leapt out of his chest in joy. Oh God – after a week of waiting and worrying – _Thank you thank you thank you!_ "You did? That's wonderful!" he cried, clasping his hands before him. "Well, n-not exactly, but – oh, you know! If you'll just take me down to her cell, I'll–"

"Oh, no need for that. She's already left."

Victor's smile froze. "What?"

"She was up and talking normal again, so me and Harry let her loose – he told me Dr. Bumby don't like it when we keep her long. She should be back at Houndsditch by now. Probably just missed her on the way here, I bet." The policeman shrugged and turned his attention to one of the piles of paperwork teetering nearby. "Sorry to make you walk all this way, but–"

_Thump!_

The papers cascaded across the desk, a few fluttering off the other end to land on the floor. Startled, the officer looked up to find Victor leaning close to him, jaw tight. "You just. . .let her. . .go?"

"Uh – yes," the officer replied, Scottish accent a bit thicker now. "She was acting herself, and – and there was this lusher who needed a place to sleep it off. . . ."

Victor's eyes narrowed, eyebrows forming almost a perfect horizontal line. "You let a young lady suffering from persistent hallucinations and fainting fits leave your jail _on her own_ ," he said, voice getting darker and darker with each syllable.

"We was busy," the officer responded, eyes darting from side to side as he scooted subtly away. Victor resisted the urge to blink in surprise. Was he really that intimidating? . . .Good! He needed to be more intimidating! Intimidating was the only way anyone got anything done around here! "And it ain't like any of us are head doctors."

"You couldn't wait until I'd come by," Victor growled, his fingers tightening on the worn wood of the desk. That little part of him that was so horrified by these displays protested that he was being a hypocrite – he himself had let her wander off on her own right after a fit back in late September. The memory just served to make him angrier, though – he'd only done that at her urging, and he'd _learned_ from his mistake. And he'd never expected the police to make such an error in the first place! "You couldn't have sent someone to Houndsditch to inform us that she was in your custody and that it would be much appreciated if either I or Dr. Bumby could come and pick her up. You couldn't even have escorted her back to the premises yourself, knowing her tendency toward psychotic breaks over the past two months."

"We was busy!" the officer said, holding the phrase up like a shield. A few of the others were glancing over now, obviously wondering how this stick insect of a man was managing to unnerve one of their own. "And after what Harry told me about Dr. Bumby nearly handing him his arse on a plate–"

"Harry – Harry Hightopp?! _He_ let Alice out on her own?!" Victor's jaw dropped, then snapped back shut as he slapped his hand against his face. "He of all people should know better!"

"Know better than what?"

Victor looked up to see Hightopp himself enter the room, sporting a most inappropriate, if rather confused, grin. "What are you doing here anyway?" the constable added. "Shouldn't you be back at the Home looking after your girl?"

Victor shot the man his best glare. "There's no girl to look after, Constable Hightopp," he growled through clenched teeth. "I just came from tea at Houndsditch, and I assure you Alice was _not_ in attendance."

Hightopp's smile dropped right off his face. "What – she didn't make it back? But we let her go two hours ago! Don't take that long to get back to Houndsditch. . . ." He and his fellow officer shared a baffled glance. "She can't have wandered off again! Not already!"

"Constable, _she herself_ told me that her first two major episodes were separated by mere minutes!" Victor snapped. "The only reason she lasted as long as she did before the third was because she gave it her all, and even _that_ was barely enough! It's not inconceivable to think that she's already gone back to Wonderland! She's probably been there for at least an hour by now!" His finger jabbed at Hightopp's chest. "And _you_ let her back onto the streets to nearly get herself killed!"

Hightopp stepped back, holding up his hands. "Take it easy, Master Van Dort," he said soothingly. "Shouldn't be too hard to find her again–"

"Oh, of course, it's not like it took you almost a week to locate her this time!" Victor yelled. The rest of the policemen were full-on staring now, but he paid them no mind. Pure incandescent fury was drowning out his usual stage fright. "By sheer _luck_ , I might add! All it takes is one wrong step, and – and she might be dead already, for all we know! I can't believe you had her and – and–" His voice cracked. "Why didn't you send someone to fetch me? I would have come in a heartbeat!"

"No time! Some louse started a pub brawl, and we got a rush – nearly had a fight of our own right inside the station!" Hightopp explained, expression now rather sour. "Not to mention the usual crowd of cheatin' bobtails and fawney-droppers. We got things to do and she looked like she had her head on straight!" He folded his brawny arms. "Besides, we may have had a little chat with Splatter about not whacking off any of your body parts, but I bet you a pound he's still got it out for you. Figure I'm doing you a favor by keeping you off the streets."

"Well, you certainly didn't do Alice any." Victor paced the room, practically ripping his fingers through his hair to keep them from forming fists. "Two hours – I missed her by a mere _two hours–_ " He spun toward the gawkers and threw his arms into the air. "What else could _possibly_ go wrong today?!"

". . . _Victor_?"

Victor whirled around so fast he nearly toppled over. Standing by the front door of the station, staring at him with wide blue eyes, was a shockingly familiar figure. ". . .You have got to be kidding me," he blurted, unable to stop himself.

"I'm – thinking much the same, to be honest," Victoria White replied, coming up the steps toward him. "Goodness, what's _happened_? I've never seen you like this before."

Victor pressed his face into his hand, forcing his temper back into its cage. "I'm sorry," he murmured, shoulders slumping. "I d-didn't mean to cause such a scene. It's just – a friend of mine has been missing for a while, and she was supposed to be here, and–"

"Are you talking about Miss Liddell?"

Victor's head snapped up, fingernails scraping his hairline. "What – how do you–"

"I met her just a little while ago, not far from here," Victoria said, lips twitching upward. "She mentioned that she knew you. And that you were living at–" The almost-smile faded. "Are you _really_ at a place called the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth?"

"Yes – it's a long story," Victor said, rubbing the back of his head. _Not one that I ever wanted to share with you, either._ "But that can wait – you saw Alice? How was she?" He swallowed. "Did she seem – c-coherent?"

Victoria bit her lip, suddenly unable to keep his gaze. "Well. . .yes," she said, wringing her hands. "Up until the point she fainted."

And what had he just told Hightopp and company? _Yup – b_ _ack to Wonderland again already,_ Victor thought with a tiny groan. _Can't you keep you_ _rself_ _even five minutes in reality_ _, Alice_ _?_ "Oh no. . .Victoria, please tell me you saw where she went," he pleaded.

"Went? Victor, she's with Christopher and me."

". . .What?"

"Well, I couldn't just leave her on the street, could I?" Victoria said, putting her hands on her hips. "And since I have no idea where this Houndsditch is, we decided it was best to take her to our hotel room – we're visiting some friends of Christopher's in the city. She's not even awake yet – or, at least, she wasn't when I left. Actually, I came here looking for some help for her. Christopher tried to fetch her a doctor, but the man refused to come once he said who the patient was!" She shook her head, expression indicating she was just holding back a nasty comment about said doctor. "I honestly had no idea she'd come straight from the station. If I'd known, I would have brought her right back."

"Yeah, we'd just let her loose after Fred picked her up as a public nuisance," Hightopp explained, now quite contrite. "Didn't think she'd get back into trouble so soon. . .Bumby really is gonna have my – badge on a platter, ain't he?"

Victoria's eyes widened with astonishment. "Would he? For you trying to help?"

"The proprietor of Houndsditch is not the most pleasant of people," Victor said, finally giving in and giving his tie a good twisting. "Where are you staying? I've got to get her back to the Home – or at least keep her from wandering off again. She does that a lot lately, I'm afraid."

"The Canton – Christopher's friend Robert recommended it, and it's not too far from here," Victoria told him, fidgeting with the top of her skirt. "You're certainly welcome to come with me and fetch her – we were hoping to find you anyway. Though, um. . .Christopher told me that there's rumors that she can't tell fantasy from reality. She isn't – _dangerous_ , is she?"

"Only to herself, most of the time," Hightopp said, tone sympathetic. "Has these funny fits where she wanders around thinking she's somewhere else. Ain't that right, Fred?"

The Scotsman Victor had been talking to before nodded. "Aye. She don't see things like we do. When we was asking around before, fellow told me he heard her ranting about caterpillars and how useless they were. Another said she was screamin' about the National Railroad ripping up her head."

"Infernal Train," Victor corrected automatically.

"Yeah, that," Fred agreed before blinking. "Wait, how–"

"She told me about it, the last time she was herself. It's a much less friendly train than the ones we've got in the Underground, I can say that for sure." Victor shook his head. "Please, let's go now. Every minute we delay is another minute something can go wrong."

"Right, let me just get my hat – what, did you think I wasn't coming too?" Hightopp added as Victor looked at him in surprise. "My fault the little chickadee was set free from her cage – least I can do. And you never know if Splatter might try something if I ain't there to keep an eye on you."

"He's left me alone all this week," Victor argued. "And he doesn't usually come by _this_ way, does he?"

"No, but – better safe than sorry, right? Mean, that's what got us into this mess."

Victor sighed, conceding the point. "True. And the last thing I need is him giving me trouble right now."

Victoria swiveled her head between the two of them, baffled. "I'm sorry, I'm completely lost – who or what is a Splatter?"

"You ain't talking about Jack Splatter, are you?" another officer put in. "'Cause – I know it's going around that some swell knocked him on his ar – er, his nether regions, beggin' your pardon ma'am," he corrected himself with an embarrassed hat-tip toward Victoria. "But you ain't saying–"

Hightopp clapped Victor on the shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire Cat in Alice's drawings. "Yup! This here's the twig who got the better of our favorite Haymarket Hector!"

Victor's cheeks burned as Victoria stared at him. To think not two minutes ago he would have welcomed that epithet. . . . "I'll – I'll explain on the way," he muttered. "Let's – l-let's just go."

* * *

The Canton proved to be one of those little hotels that were popping up all over the place now that the Underground was really starting to get popular, born of dreams of quick money. Victor took a moment to admire the vaguely Roman facade as their cab pulled up outside. "It looks nice. . .but I would have thought you'd be staying somewhere like the Langham," he admitted.

"As I said, recommendation from one of Christopher's friends," Victoria said. "It's clean and quiet and close enough to most places we want to go. I'm perfectly content with that." She knotted her hands together. "It's certainly better than your Houndsditch."

"Oh, please, don't refer to it as _my_ Houndsditch," Victor replied, making a face. "I've wanted to leave since the moment I arrived."

Victoria opened her mouth as if to say something – then she glanced up and down the street and closed it again. "I'm – still trying to wrap my mind around what you told me about Alice," she said instead, as Hightopp got out. "Her fits are her wandering off someplace inside her head?"

"Wonderland, yes," Victor confirmed, climbing out. Circling the carriage, he opened the door for Victoria. "Something's gone wrong with it – some horrible invading goop called Ruin, a product of the Infernal Train – and she's trying to save it." He sighed. "I _think_ doing so is supposed to save her sanity as well – she's told me she did something similar while in Rutledge, and it got her out of there. The trouble is–" He huffed. "If it was just fainting, that would be fine. But she won't stay still! Instead, she goes to and fro in a daze, playacting whatever's happening in her mind. I've been chasing her all over London because of it." He gulped. "So if she's r-ranting and raving at nothing up there, please don't be too alarmed."

"As long as she hasn't wrecked the room, I'll be satisfied," Victoria assured him, leading the way into the lobby. The concierge looked a touch worried at the sight of a policeman, but made no move to stop them. "They're with me – personal business. She does sound in a bad way, poor dear. . .Christopher said that part of the doctor's refusal was a fear of being injured should she wake up," she added in more pained tones.

"Well, there's some stories from the bedlam days floatin' around the streets," Hightopp said. "She ain't really one for attackin' people this time, though. More likely he was lazy and didn't want the trouble of looking after her."

"Hmph." Victoria looked quite unimpressed. "I thought doctors were supposed to take an oath to help anyone they could."

"Unfortunately, around here, the first rule is always 'look out for yourself,'" Victor muttered. "Where's your room?"

"The sixth floor – which is good if she _is_ ranting and raving, as we don't have many neighbors." She glanced back at her former fiance as they reached the stairs. "You never did say a word about that 'Splatter,' you know."

Victor winced. He'd hoped telling her about Houndsditch and Alice's troubles had been sufficient to distract her from that topic. No such luck, it seemed. "Um. . .he's–"

"Ain't really proper to discuss it with a lady like yourself," Hightopp cut in. "Suffice it to say he's bad news."

Victoria's gaze turned steely – Victor was rather uncomfortably reminded of Lady Everglot's sneers. "I survived an attack on my person from a vicious murderer. 'Bad news' I can believe with a name like that, but I think I'm capable of hearing it." The eyes shifted to him. "Well?"

It all came out in a rush. "He's a pimp and I knocked him unconscious once."

Victoria jerked to a stop halfway up a step. "Ah – what?"

"Nastiest dealer of back alley flesh in the East End," Hightopp said, apparently deciding that if Victor was going whole hog, he might as well too. "Known for carryin' around a cleaver for people he don't like. According to Master Van Dort here, he knocked Alice loopy in the Mangled Mermaid – pub over in Billingsgate – back in September, then tried to pick a fight with Victor when he came lookin' for her." He grinned. "Didn't expect a swell to knock him clean into a packing crate! Surprised you didn't bust his head open then and there."

"I'm surprised I hit him at all," Victor confessed, not looking at Victoria. It was funny how something he was so proud of in his new life could seem so shameful when confronted with his old one. "I was running into the Mermaid to help Alice when he grabbed my arm, and when I spun around, it all just seemed to – h-happen."

"Aw, don't sell yourself short," Hightopp said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You keep gettin' one over on him, don't ya?"

"Only through luck and some quick thinking. . . ."

"Still the only one to ever threaten to shove his cleaver in him."

Victoria wasn't even pretending to climb the stairs anymore. "Victor?!"

"I'd had a very bad day and said some very, _very_ stupid things," Victor groaned, covering his face with his hands. "If I hadn't immediately gone to Bow Street and begged for help from you and yours, Constable Hightopp –"

"Yeah, yeah, fair enough," Hightopp allowed, then grinned again. "Still, just proves you've got more balls than most of the actual scum out there."

"More that I can't control my tongue when I'm upset," Victor mumbled.

Poor Victoria didn't seem to know what to make of any of this. "You've – been having some adventures in the city, haven't you?" she finally managed to get out.

Victor couldn't help a laugh at the absurdity. "Yes, and I'd wish they'd stop."

They finally finished their climb to the sixth floor, Victor's stomach beginning to toss and turn in a now-familiar state of nervous anticipation. Victoria beckoned them down the hall. "Our suite is just this – Christopher!"

"Victoria!" Christopher White loped up to his wife, nose wrinkled as if he'd just had a bath of sour milk. "I visited that Rutledge, and they told me – oh! Er, hello," he said, stumbling over his words as he noticed the two visitors. "Officer – and Master Van Dort?"

"Hello, Mr. White," Victor said, attempting a friendly smile. It came out as more of a rictus. "I k-know this must come as a surprise, but I just happened to be in the station when your wife came looking for help. I'm acquainted with Alice – I believe you were told we're living in the same Home?" Christopher nodded. "Yes, well, I figured I might be of assistance. . . ." He swallowed, picking at his tie. "Um – w-what were you doing at Rutledge?"

"Trying to find a doctor who'd actually come to see the poor girl," Christopher explained. "The fellow who didn't want to be bothered directed me there – said I ought to check with a 'Dr. Wilson.' But when I called on the place, the head nurse told me he'd retired some months ago. She offered to send around someone else, but. . .honestly, I'm not sure I'd want help from anyone in that facility," he admitted, lip curling under his mustache. "The orderly that met me at the door looked thick as a brick and twice as cruel."

"Yes, Alice has mentioned the staff there tends toward that sort," Victor said, frowning. "You should hear some of her stories of the place. Though I've met Dr. Wilson, and he's decent enough."

"Oh? Did you have to call him in for a previous fit?"

"No, ah. . .h-he was called in for _me_ by my parents before I came here because of – c-certain incidents," Victor reluctantly admitted, hands kneading his tie.

"Right, your Angela!" Hightopp said with a shit-eating grin.

Victor blinked. "Ang – _Emily_ ," he corrected. "How on earth did you get Angela?"

"Huh. . .could have sworn talk on the street was about an 'Angie. . . .'" Hightopp shrugged. "Then again, they also like to say you–"

"Can we go in and see Alice now?" Victor said hastily. "I've gotten her to come around before, maybe I can do it again."

"Of course, of course." Christopher knocked twice on the door nearest. "Alan? We're back, and we have some guests with us. Could you please–"

"Sir!"

The door was flung open by a rather disheveled young man, blue eyes frantic and sandy brown hair going every which way. Victor vaguely recognized him as the manservant whom he'd encountered during his visit to Victoria's house. "Sir, she's gone!"

Even though he'd been half-expecting it, it still didn't make the news easier to take. "What?!" Victor darted in front of Victoria and seized Alan by the shoulders, heedless of the rudeness of his actions. "Where did she go?"

"The roof!" Alan cried, flinging an arm skyward. "Though she's not up there any longer, I can't find any sign of her now–"

"The _roof_?" Victoria repeated, staring. "Alan, what _are_ you talking about?"

"I'm not even sure myself, ma'am," Alan confessed, struggling to keep his composure. "It all happened so fast. . .Not long after you and Mr. White left, Miss Liddell finally stirred. I tried to speak to her, see if she was feeling better, but she didn't even seem to know I was there. Instead, she made her way into the hall and started randomly wandering up and down, muttering to herself. I attempted to guide her back to our rooms, in case she hurt herself, but she screamed the moment I touched her! Then she fled to the balcony and collapsed! I followed, just in time to see her spring back up and start staring at the sky as if she'd never seen it before. Then she mumbled something about – Cambridge?" Alan ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick out at even weirder angles. "Honestly, it sounded more like 'Cardbridge' – and then–" His finger jabbed at the ceiling again. "She climbed right up the wall! I was too shocked to do anything at first, and when I finally got my wits back about me, she was already halfway to the top! I raced up there as fast as I could to try and catch her, but she – she'd disappeared by the time I made it." He covered his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry, I really am. It's just – how often do you expect a lady recovering from a swoon to make like a spider up the side of the building?!"

"When it's Alice, more often than you'd think," Hightopp said, shaking his head. "Ain't your fault, sir. I've chased her over rooftops meself – she's a crafty one when it comes to high places. Seems to know every secret way to get from one house to the next."

Victor slumped against the nearby wall, groaning. "Oh no. . .I was so close. . . ."

"She might still be around," Christopher said, going the optimistic route. "She's a slip of a thing – how far could she get?"

Victor stared. Had – had the man really just – one giggle escaped, then another, and then, almost before he knew it, he'd burst out laughing. "Oh, Mr. White, if only you knew!" he got out between sniggers. "The only time I've ever caught up with her was when she was lying unconscious in a burning building – yes, that was the Splatter incident," he added for Victoria's benefit. Oh dear, his stomach was starting to hurt. . .he sucked in some air, forcing himself to calm down. "She's likely halfway to China by now."

Poor Christopher gaped at him briefly, expression clearly doubtful of _his_ mental state. He got his legs back under him with impressive speed, though. ". . .Well, we – we can't just sit around here and worry, can we?" he replied, straightening. "Alan, come with me – we'll check the buildings on either side, ask if anyone's seen her."

"Right, sir." Alan glanced sideways at Victor, worrying his bottom lip. "I am sorry, Master Van Dort. I never meant for her to escape. I understand you're a friend?"

Victor nodded. "Like Constable Hightopp said, it's not your fault," he assured the unfortunate manservant. "She really does have a talent for slipping away before you know it. . .and it couldn't have helped that you didn't know as much as you ought about her – d-delicate state of mind." He ran a hand down the side of his face, pondering. "Cardbridge – no, she's never mentioned that before. Must be a new domain."

"Sir?"

"N-nothing, just thinking aloud." Victor stiffened his spine, mentally girding his loins. _All right. Sound the horn, the hunt is on again._ "You're right, Mr. White. We can't just sit around. While you two search the buildings, I'll take the street. People _do_ see her, it's just a matter of finding one who saw in what direction she was heading." He turned back to the door. "Come on, before she–"

" _You_ look like you could use a cup of tea," Victoria interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. "How about I call for a pot while they go out on the search?"

Victor gave her a look. "I just _came_ from tea. I'm fine, really."

Victoria returned it. "Victor, you were practically in hysterics just a minute ago."

"I think tea _would_ be better for your nerves, Master Van Dort," Constable Hightopp agreed before Victor could reply. "I'll go out with Mr. White and Alan here and start pounding the pavement. You're gonna wear yourself down to the bone here if you're not careful."

"Please, Victor," Victoria added. "I – I'd like to talk to you. Just you and me."

Victor opened his mouth to mount another defense – but those big blue eyes were so desperately pleading he couldn't find one. He probably did owe her a bit more explanation about all of this nonsense. And it wasn't like he'd had _much_ of a tea at Houndsditch – just half a rather bitter cup and a dry biscuit bolted down so he didn't have to spend too much time in Bumby's presence. "All right," he capitulated with a sigh, before fixing the constable with a hard stare. "But after I have a cup, I'm joining you three. The more eyes, the better."

"Right," Hightopp nodded, then tipped his hat to Victoria. "We'll return shortly, ma'am. Sirs, if you please?"

"Lead the way, Constable," Christopher said, following the officer out the door. "And whatever advice you can give, I'm quite willing to receive."

"I'll have a pot sent up from the tearoom," Alan told them, trailing behind his employer and the officer. "I was going to order room service for you anyway, before the – incident."

"Thank you, Alan," Victoria said with a grateful smile. "It's much appreciated."

Alan nodded at her, gave Victor one last apologetic glance, then followed the others out, leaving the pair alone. Silence descended almost like a physical weight. Victor rocked from foot to foot, wondering what the appropriate conversational opener was, while Victoria brushed invisible lint off her skirt. "Please take a seat," she finally encouraged him after a small eternity. "I don't feel right leaving you standing."

"I thought the hostess was supposed to sit first," Victor remarked, though he did obligingly make his way to the nearest chair. It creaked dangerously as he plopped into it.

"I need to be ready to receive the tea when it comes," Victoria said, still fussing with her dress and not looking him in the eye. "I – I'm sure they'll come back with some information about her whereabouts," she added with an attempt at a smile. "Or perhaps even with Alice herself! Do you _really_ think she could have left the neighborhood?"

Victor sighed and slumped forward, eyes on the carpet. "Maybe, maybe not, but. . .I could probably draw a map of London from memory by now with how far and long I've walked across it on my searches," he muttered. "She has a remarkable ability to vanish whenever people are looking for her. I don't doubt that they'll try their hardest, but – well, you heard Constable Hightopp." He brushed back a stray lock of hair, which defiantly fell right back into place. "The most we'll probably hear is stories of her shouting at nothing and nearly falling off a roof."

Victoria had no response to this – not that Victor blamed her. It wasn't too long ago that he would have been equally as tongue-tied. He forced himself to look up at her. "I meant to ask you what happened to Hildegarde," he said, figuring a change of subject might help the mood a little. "Is she still employed by your parents?"

"No, actually – she's on a prolonged visit to each of her children and grandchildren," Victoria replied, immediately brightening. "She left not long after we moved. Seeing the dead rise made her realize just how little time she might have left in the Land of the Living. She wanted to make sure she'd told all her family how much she loves them before the inevitable." She giggled softly. "Given that she has five children, ten grandchildren, and at least two great-grandchildren, all living far and wide across the country, I don't expect her back before Christmas."

Victor smiled properly for the first time that day. Now _that_ was real good news. "Oh, that's lovely. I'm happy for her, I really am. It's wonderful how that incident inspired something so heartfelt on her part."

"Me too." Victoria's cheerfulness faded. "Unlike what it did with your parents." She suddenly turned to face him straight on, hands tightening on her skirt as she – well, it wasn't quite a glare, but it was close enough for Victor's purposes. "Victor, why didn't you _tell_ me they didn't believe you? Didn't you think I'd stand up for you? After being pulled right into the middle of it all?! I would have gladly told them everything I knew! My parents too, in fact – they may not like you, but they would have backed you up! You didn't have to face yours alone and be sent to – to a place that seems just shy of an asylum!"

Victor jerked back in his seat, fighting the impulse to duck behind it and hide. Did every woman he know have to be terrifying when upset? "I-I know you would have," he assured her, pulling at the knot of his tie. "It just – it didn't even cross my mind to tell you. I was – r-rather distracted by meeting your – h-husband."

Some of the heat went out of Victoria's gaze. "Oh. All right, I can understand that. But afterward?"

"Afterward I was – I wasn't t-thinking very clearly," Victor murmured, the twisted old oak looming up in his mind's eye. "I did _try_ to write to you, but – the words just never came. And then my parents announced my move to Houndsditch, and when I arrived I s-soon was much more focused on arguing with Bumby. . . ." He let out a deep, disgusted sigh. "Besides, the chances of them actually listening to you were remote at best. I think your parents _did_ tell them about what they saw – something about an eye in someone's soup? – and Mother just took it as proof I'd managed to drive _them_ mad as well. Pastor Galswells has been _very_ loud about the fact that I made the dead rise, and they never paid him any mind at all. I don't think anything short of Emily digging her way out of the earth right in front of their faces will convince them I'm not a lunatic. And even then, it's likely Mother would accuse me of staging it somehow."

"I see." Victoria hmphed, playing with her sleeve. "That's awful. I wish I could help. It's not right that they think you're mad."

"It isn't, but I'm learning to live with it," Victor said.

A knock at the door cut off Victoria's reply. She hastily put her dress to rights and answered it, accepting a tray filled with all the essentials of tea from one of the hotel employees. "Thank you – I'll send Alan down with the dishes later. . . . You shouldn't have to," she continued as she brought it to the table. "Particularly not in a place like Houndsditch. You're not a youth, nor hallucinating. And while I'm sure you have painful memories, Emily isn't among them, is she?" Victor shook his head. "How does Dr. Bumby 'free' people from those, anyway?"

"He's a hypnotist," Victor explained. "He puts you into a trance, then tells you that you have to forget the memories he's deemed 'undesirable.'"

Victoria arched an eyebrow as she rearranged things on the tray. "Does that actually work?"

"Dr. Bumby claims it does, and Alice has said a few things _have_ gotten fuzzier since she's been in his care – but her travels through Wonderland are bringing a lot of them back, so. . . ." He shrugged. "I'm not the best person to ask – I've been fighting with him over this since April." He smirked slightly. "My parents aren't the only ones with vast reserves of stubbornness."

"I'm surprised you haven't just run away," Victoria admitted, taking her seat. "Your parents may be paying him, but surely they can't actually keep you there."

"I – I was hoping I could tough it out. . . ." He winced under Victoria's sharp, disbelieving stare, grimacing as he turned away. "Yes, I know, bad plan, but – it's s-scary, going out on your own for the first time." He glanced back at her. "Did _you_ think of running away before – Barkis?"

Victoria rubbed her wedding ring with her thumb. "Briefly," she admitted. "But I didn't want – my parents so desperately needed the money. . .and I had no idea where on earth I could go."

"That's exactly my problem – finding work and a flat in this city is harder than you might think." Victor ran his fingers through his hair. "I – I thought I'd found something this morning. . .a clerk's position on Threadneedle Street. I know just enough about figures and ledgers that I thought it would be a perfect fit." He slumped again. "They rejected me outright simply because of my last name. Accused me of 'slumming.' And none of the men from the factories will even look twice at me. Mother and Father send me an allowance – deliberately small – so I do have some savings. . .but if my address changes, not only will the money stop, Mother will likely stampede up here, and then. . . ." It didn't bear thinking about, not until he could afford a guard dog or two.

Victoria picked up the teapot's lid and stared into the liquid within. ". . .Christopher and I could probably afford to give you a loan," she said suddenly. "We're not nearly as rich as your parents – or even mine in the good days – but something to keep a roof over your head should be fine."

"Really?" For a moment, Victor entertained the possibility. The chance to have his own bed, his own parlor, his own – all right, his own toilet was probably pushing it, but maybe one he didn't have to wait so long for in the mornings – all without being glared at and berated daily. . . . Then the cruel harshness of reality hit him upside the head. "That would still bring Mother and Father running, though – Dr. Bumby would tell them I'd left. I don't – he's _already_ threatened me with 'radical treatments,' if he convinces them I need more – 'professional' care. . . ." His breathing quickened as he imagined cold salt water and squirming leeches. "If you ever heard Alice's stories about Rutledge, you wouldn't sleep for a week. What your husband saw was just the tip of the iceberg."

"I don't doubt it," Victoria replied, looking faintly ill. She closed up the pot and began to pour. "What if I talked to Dr. Bumby, though? Having someone to corroborate your story would help, wouldn't it? If he was convinced of the truth, your parents would _have_ to leave you alone."

"Oh no they wouldn't – did I mention Dr. Bumby is my _tenth_ psychiatrist?"

The teapot rattled. "Tenth?!"

Victor nodded grimly. "Though he's only the fifth I've been made to pay any mind to. After Dr. Wilson decided I was, if not perfectly fine, all right enough for normal company, Mother and Father threw him out and started bringing in every other doctor they could think of. They'd already gone through eight by the time we found you."

". . .Then they must at least be running out of possibilities."

"Maybe, but that leads us right back to R-Rutledge. And don't think they wouldn't do it, Victoria," he added, holding up a hand to block further protest. "They've already said they're willing to go to any extreme to make me 'well.' I don't want to drag you into that."

"I've been part of this since the moment you and Emily appeared on my balcony," Victoria retorted, setting down the teapot and picking up the sugar. "I want to be useful. What if I _could_ convince Dr. Bumby? You could get away while they were looking for the next fellow."

"Maybe, but Dr. Bumby's a stubborn arse too," Victor muttered, then remembered he was in front of a lady. "Ah, s-sorry. But it's true. He's awful, Victoria, he really is. He rides roughshod over everyone's desires in therapy, he absolutely refuses to listen to any opinion that's not his own, he makes the children wear _numbers_ for some convoluted reason of 'patient privacy' that I'm not sure I believe, and whenever he tries to be charming, he – he comes off a little like Lord Barkis, honestly."

Victoria winced. "He sounds lovely," she said, with a dose of sarcasm Alice would be proud of. "But I suppose he wouldn't be in charge of so many children if he wasn't good at his job."

"I'm not so sure about that," Victor said, leaning heavily on one hand. "I can't say for certain about the children, but Alice. . .I'd swear she was doing better before he started stuffing pills down her throat and insisting on extra sessions. And his only response to her hallucinations has been recriminations and threats to send her back to the asylum!" A frustrated huff escaped his throat. "He's more of a bully than a doctor. I have no idea how he got to be so well-thought-of." Well, there was one possibility, but Victor had no idea where the psychiatrist would get the money for so many bribes. Adoption wasn't that lucrative a business, was it?

"Neither do I, and I've never even met the man," Victoria muttered, dumping sugar in her tea. "But even if he is – Barkis-like, another eyewitness can't hurt."

"Unless he considers you as mad as I am. He couldn't do anything to you about it, thankfully, but he wouldn't listen either. And even if you _did_ convince him – there's no way around telling him that I genuinely _did_ try to marry Emily, is there?" Victor touched his throat as the church rose up in his mind's eye. "You saw me there, with the poison at my lips. He'd seize upon that as a sign of mental instability right away."

"Oh come now," Victoria grumbled, giving him another Maudeline-style frown. "Surely you've convinced him you have no desire to – go Below, right?"

Oh no. He was going to have to tell her, wasn't he? He'd gone so long without either hearing the word or having it pass his lips. . .he took a deep breath and braced himself. "That's not the m-main charge against me, Victoria. N-Ne-Necrophilia is."

It was frankly a miracle poor Victoria didn't drop the sugar cellar. " _What_?!"

Victor nodded, pushing down a wave of nausea. "Father's fault – apparently the town crier announcing I'd eloped with a corpse gave him – i-ideas," he said, biting his lip. "I've told them time and time again, there was no – I d-didn't – but they – well, telling them that I _w-wanted_ to marry Emily wouldn't help my case even if they were convinced she was real."

"I – I can see that now," Victoria said, pale. "I had no idea. . .now I'm _very_ glad I didn't bring this up in front of Constable Hightopp." She set down the sugar and ran her fingers through her hair. "I'm so sorry for you. Oh, I _hate_ feeling like my hands are tied!" she added abruptly, cheeks turning an angry red. "You're sure you won't accept that loan? I'd have to talk it over with Christopher, yes, but – or maybe I could convince Mother and Father–"

"Victoria, do you really think they'd help me?" Victor cut in. The very idea of Lord and Lady Everglot offering him aid after the Emily incident – that was enough to make him think she'd taken leave of her senses.

"They owe _me_ for Barkis," Victoria snapped. "I may not technically be nobility myself anymore, but they are for all their lack of wealth. A few words here and there, perhaps a few borrowed pounds to smooth things over. . .it could make all the difference!"

"Not for Alice."

Victoria stopped, blinking. "That's the crux of it," Victor continued, absently knotting his tie around his hand. "You can help me, maybe, but you couldn't help Alice." He looked her straight in the eye. "I want out of there, Victoria, I want it almost more than I can stand – but I can't leave her behind. She's my best friend, and she's not well. You and Alan saw that. I can't leave the Home until I know she's safe. I don't know if that's with Dr. Bumby, with another psychiatrist, or even smuggled away with me once I figure out the best way of fighting off my parents, but. . . ." He sighed. "You and yours are the only ones outside of Constable Hightopp that have _ever_ offered to assist me in my search – and thank you so much for that. Everyone else. . .they don't give a d-damn, pardon my language, about her. Except as – well." His eyes darted away from her again. "You know the kind of people I punch nowadays."

"And threaten with their own cleavers, though it sounds like he more than deserved it," Victoria agreed, leaning on her hand. "I understand, Victor. If she's in this much pain, she does need someone to look after her." Her eyes and voice softened. "You really do care for her, don't you?"

"Of course I do – like I said, she's my best friend," Victor replied, a smile spreading across his face as his mind turned toward happier memories. "I never thought I'd meet anyone like her. Certainly not in Whitechapel. She's intelligent, and strong, and imaginative – oh, Victoria, you should _hear_ her stories about Wonderland!" he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. "They're just incredible! Every time she starts one, I have to grab my sketchbook, because otherwise my fingers _itch_ to illustrate what she's talking about. She's got mechanical ladybirds that tote around exploding acorns, and fish that are half-frog and spit poison, and a Cheshire Cat that never stops grinning, and a Mock Turtle that cries no matter his mood, and – and whole _kingdoms_ made up of living cards and chess pieces. . .I've never been so inspired in my life! And she listens to me go on about the Land of the Dead – about Emily and Bonejangles and all of them – and while she doesn't believe me, she at least plays along. She's said that if I am mad, it's the gentlest, nicest madness she's ever seen, and that she hopes the afterlife really is like that for her parents and sister. She also likes butterflies as much as I do, and – well, she's a cat person, but no one's perfect," he chuckled. "We've been all over the East End together, and you can thank her lessons on surviving there for me being in one, not-ill piece. The Splatter incidents aside, of course. . . ." His face darkened as he thought of all the nasty comments Jack had sent her way, then shook it off and grinned again. "The children tell me I'm the first person to make her laugh in ages – can you believe that? Me, making someone laugh – _without_ the help of a particularly ridiculous pratfall, I might add. It's such a nice laugh too. . .and she. . . ." His gaze dropped to his hands, folding and unfolding in his lap. "She's seen me at my worst, found me struggling to escape the d-darkest recesses of my mind – and got me out with the first real hug I've had in ages. She's always there with a friendly ear whenever I need one, and she puts up with all my little quirks and nervous habits. Even said that she _liked_ them. And for my birthday, she – she drew me a picture of Emily's piano in the Ball  & Socket, despite the fact that it's very hard for her to put pencil to paper these days. Because she wanted to do something special for me. For _me_. When all I want in the world is to do something special for her. To see her happy. See her smile." He looked off into the middle distance, for a moment back in Hyde Park on their last truly happy day together. Her dark hair fluttering around her face. . .her green eyes shining with delight in the sun. . .the elegant curl of those soft pink lips. . . . "She's got the most gorgeous smile I've ever seen."

Time seemed to drift away for a while as he floated in dreamy remembrance, but eventually his brain registered the fact that Victoria was staring at him. He blinked and flushed at her stunned expression. "Oh – t-that was q-quite the speech, wasn't it?" he said, fiddling with his fingers. "I'm sorry, I–"

"You're in love," Victoria whispered.

Well, that didn't help his blush any. "Am I really that obvious?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"When you go on like that, you are," Victoria said, face now bright with joy. "Oh, Victor, I'm so happy for you! Getting to know someone really does make all the difference, doesn't it?" she added with a playful wink.

"It does," Victor said, unable to help another smile. "Er – n-no disrespect to what you and I briefly shared, of course. I liked you from the moment I saw you. But Alice. . .I've bared my soul to her. And not just through the piano. The way I feel now – it's – it's–"

"More complete?" Victoria filled in. He nodded. "Trust me, Victor, I know exactly how you feel." She squeezed her hands together, as if she were a proud mother. "I'm just thrilled that you've found someone whom you adore so much! Though I'm sorry her – illness is getting in the way of your relationship."

And there was the ice bucket of reality again, ready to soak him through. "Don't be," he mumbled, dropping his head. "T-there isn't one."

"What? Victor, you just described her as your best friend."

"And that's all she is. All she could ever be."

"Because of Wonderland?"

"Well, it's not helping at the moment, but–" He played with the knot of his tie. "E-even if her mind _wasn't_ tormenting her regularly, I – I still wouldn't say anything."

"Whyever not?"

Victor sneaked a glance upward. Victoria looked nothing but sympathetic. . .and she had to be the one person he _could_ talk to about this, right? "Because she'd never feel the same way," he confessed. "I made a horrible first impression on her – I'm still a bit surprised we ended up being such good friends. And – and she's so strong, so determined, so – so _vital_ –" His eyes found the carpet again. "Why would she _ever_ want someone like me?"

There was a moment of silence. Then, in shockingly severe tones, Victoria said, "Victor, that is the silliest thing I've ever heard."

"What?" Victor jerked his head up. She was seriously going to argue this with him? "I–"

"This is _exactly_ the kind of attitude that let you believe I would actually marry Barkis, isn't it?" Victoria continued, arms folded tight across her chest. "You truly think no one would ever want to be your wife."

"N-not her, at any rate!" Victor protested. "You've met her, Victoria! Surely you've seen–"

"What I saw was a nice young woman who, while badly mistaken about your mental state, clearly cared about you a lot," Victoria cut him off, eyebrows low. "You didn't hear just how fondly she spoke about you. And the moment I explained things to her, the first thing she did was whirl away saying she needed to find you. I'd bet half a guinea that if she hadn't fainted she would have burst through the door of Houndsditch ready to beg your forgiveness."

"Well, ah, t-that may be so, but–"

"I'd also like to note that you've already known two women who very much wanted to marry you based solely on first impressions."

"Am I married to either of them?" Victor snapped, then hid a wince as Victoria pulled back as if she'd been hit. Damn mouth running ahead of his brain. . . . "Sorry, that – that came out nastier than I intended. But it's the truth. Emily gave me up in favor of freedom, and you _just_ lauded the virtues of longer courtships and marrying friends."

"Yes, yes, fair enough," Victoria allowed, covering her face with her hand. "But Victor, it's as clear as day you're in love with her. She's going to figure it out eventually – especially if she's as smart as you say." Her eyes narrowed again. "Besides, when you think about it, you _not_ speaking up about your feelings is what got us into the mess with Emily, isn't it? You could have cleared the whole situation up in five minutes had you properly explained to her it was a mistake."

"I know," Victor muttered, massaging his forehead as _"I would never marry you!"_ played over in his mind. "I regret that, I really do."

"You see? Now, granted, that ended up being a rather good mess, what with helping her find peace and stopping Barkis from hurting anyone else. . . ." Victoria's fingers found her wedding ring, stroking the metal. "But the point still stands. Would it really hurt to tell Alice how you feel? Knowing someone loves her might give her something else to fight for when she's in this Wonderland."

"Or it might scare her into thinking I'm about to suffer a premature, unnatural demise," Victor replied, getting annoyed. As if Victoria knew Alice better than he did! "She's lost her entire family to fire, Victoria. The look in her eyes when she speaks of it. . .I know it's why she doesn't like to get close to people."

"You're a very notable exception."

"And I cause her enough worry already!" Victor swept his hand through the air before him. "Forget about whether or not she returns my feelings for a moment – the mere idea of s-someone loving her again might mean – she'd t-think about w-what happened the last time and then – and then she might – she might. . . ."

His voice failed him, leaving the words to hang in the air, practically visible in their intensity. _She might leave me._

_Just like you did._

The guilty, heartbroken expression on Victoria's face told him she could read them just as well as him. "Oh Victor," she breathed. "You – you know I didn't mean–"

"I do," he quickly reassured her, feeling his own surge of guilt. "I understand it wasn't your choice to be dragged away, nor to believe me dead with Pastor Galswells ranting on like he does. And I'm certainly not going to blame Emily for moving on once her business on – or below – Earth was done. But–" He stopped and swallowed, despair threatening to crash over him. "Victoria, she already l-leaves me every time Wonderland calls her back," he whispered, voice shaky. "If she did it deliberately, even in an attempt to protect me–" He shut his eyes. "I – I tried to follow Emily D-Downstairs again once we got back to Burtonsville," he confessed, and heard Victoria suck in a stunned breath. "I didn't – t-there didn't seem to be anything left to live for. And when I realized s-she truly wasn't there anymore. . .it was _worse_ than dying. I couldn't draw, couldn't compose. . .I just _was_ , in the worst possible way. And I'd b-barely gotten a chance to fall in love with either of you! If – if I lost Alice. . . ." His fingernails dug into the back of his knuckles, as if that would keep his fears at bay. "I can't go through that again, Victoria. I just can't."

A warm, soft touch made him open his eyes to find Victoria's hand on his. "I understand," she whispered. "But Victor. . .I don't want you to be alone all your life, wishing you'd said something, either. She told me you were her best friend too. Isn't it possible she cares enough about you not to dissolve your friendship over this? Even if she doesn't return your feelings?"

Victor genuinely hoped so, but. . .he shrugged, wanting to end the discussion before his mood fell any lower. "It's a moot point right now. I don't dare tell her while her mind rages like this. Having something else to worry about might cause her to topple right over the edge back into catatonia – and I will _not_ be responsible for her going back to Rutledge," he added, voice firm.

Victoria had no arguments for that, it seemed. "All right," she said, sighing. "But – at least _consider_ talking to her once she's coherent again. Please. I know the risk is great to you, but – the reward could be even greater."

"I–" Oh dear, he just could not refuse those doe-like eyes. Maybe it was part of his penance for putting her in such a bad situation so long ago. "I'll think about it," he reluctantly promised.

"Good." Victoria pulled back, her cheeks flushing with sudden embarrassment. "And now your tea's surely gone cold – let me pour you a fresh cup." She picked up his saucer, giving him a little smile. "I've been wondering how you take it ever since you visited us before."

Victor couldn't help a laugh. "Three teaspoons of sugar and enough milk to almost turn it white," he informed her as she made her way to the sink. "Satisfied?"

"For the moment – though I don't think I'll really be unless those three come back with either Alice or some information on her whereabouts."

Victor nodded, leaning on his knee. "Same here, Victoria. Same here."

* * *

Of course, they hadn't – no real surprise there. The trio had returned halfway through the tea, carrying little more than reports of Alice wandering over the rooftops. "Fellow said she was jumpin' and spinnin' like an acrobat," Hightopp had said over a cup. "Maybe this 'Cardbridge' is a circus of some kind."

"Nobody got a good look at where she was going, though," Christopher had muttered. "She was moving too fast."

"Figures," Victor had mumbled. "I don't suppose I could trouble you to search just a little farther afield with me?"

"Of course, sir," Alan had replied, smoothing back his hair. "I, at least, am at your disposal."

"I ain't one to shirk my duties," Hightopp had agreed. "Come on, boys – bottoms up, and back to work."

And so they'd gulped down the last of their tea and headed back out onto the streets, spreading out right to the edges of the neighborhood while Victoria held down the fort. Unfortunately, their bad luck held true – while Victor did stumble across another man who'd seen Alice admiring her mental scenery before leaping past another chimney, he proved to be the last eyewitness any of them could scrounge up. Alice herself was clearly long gone.

After that, Victor hadn't seen much reason to stay. Victoria and Christopher had kindly offered him dinner, but his appetite had been shot by another day of disappointment. He had let Christopher hire a cab for him, though – the poor man had been so full of apologies for not being more helpful, Victor couldn't bring himself to say no. (Besides, his feet were complaining again.) They'd made their goodbyes like old friends, Victoria shaking his hand and both of them offering their sincere wishes for Alice's safe return and his own safety while looking for her. It was pleasantly weird to be cared about again, Victor had to say. _I really do need to write to her this time,_ he thought as the carriage bumped along the cobbles. _And who knows – maybe, if I still can't find any work in a fortnight, I_ will _take them up on that loan. It would be a nice nest egg toward a proper flat, at least._

As for Hightopp, the constable had returned to the station once they'd realized their quarry was nowhere to be found. "I gotta update the other bobbies, let 'em know to keep an eye out for her," he'd told Victor before he'd left. "They're a rough-nosed lot, but they notice things – particularly Fred Tarrant. He's the bloke who brought her in – and who you took a good couple years off the life of," he added with a chuckle. "Anyway, he'll definitely keep a sharp eye out. We didn't mean to let her get herself into another mess, honest. We're rather fond of the girl, if I say so myself. Yeah, I know most of the lads don't give two figs about her, but me and Fred – well, we feel sorry for her, mostly. Not easy being known as a madwoman on these streets. Not to mention she gets to deal with that gold-hearted Dr. Bumby, charmer that he is." He'd grinned and given Victor a nudge in the ribs. "Besides, if my wife were missing, I know I'd want all the help I could get in finding her." To which Victor had only been able to bite his lip and fiddle with his tie again, wondering when he'd become so obvious in his affections. Still, Hightopp was a good ally to have. It gave him hope that Alice might come home in one less-than-traumatized piece. _And it's worth cultivating any friendship with someone willing to stand up to Splatter for me. Ugh, I hope he doesn't show his manky face again anytime soon. I really don't feel like round four._

"Houndsditch, sir!"

"Thank you," Victor said, popping open the door. He exited the cab to find Dr. Bumby leaned over a sobbing child, lip curled. "And if you mouth off like that again, you'll get a proper spanking!" he snapped as the boy rubbed his streaming eyes. "As it is, you'll be having double sessions for the next fortnight. No complaints!"

Victor sighed. _Home sweet home,_ he thought, paying the driver. _I couldn't come back to something halfway cheerful, now could I?_ "I think he's learned his lesson, Dr. Bumby," he said as he pushed open the gate.

Bumby looked up with a deep frown. "I'll decide that," he declared snidely. He gave the unfortunate child a shoved toward the front doors. "Go inside and clean yourself up. Any luck?" he added as he straightened, tone deeply sarcastic.

"Worse than usual," Victor reluctantly admitted. "They'd found her – even got her to come in quietly." His eyebrows lowered. "But because _someone_ decided to make a fuss the last time they kept her overnight, the moment she was up and talking, they let her go."

"Ah." Dr. Bumby sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Let me guess – she's already wandered off again in some fresh fugue?"

"I'm afraid so. The truly awful part is that she was picked up again right after she left. She fainted in front of – a nice young lady and her husband–" no, better not to let Bumby know his ex-fiancee was in town just yet, in case he decided to go and hound her "–who took her back to their rooms – but by the time I arrived, she'd already escaped."

Dr. Bumby huffed. "That does it. The girl is quite obviously beyond all help," he said, folding his arms. "I'll be calling on Rutledge first thing tomorrow morning. Some of their orderlies can join the hunt – she'll be going back there soon anyway."

Victor's blood ran cold. "Dr. Bumby–"

"Don't start, Master Van Dort," Dr. Bumby cut him off sharply. "You are _not_ her caregiver – I am. Or, at least, I was. Clearly my abilities are insufficient to render her sane. A shame, really. I had very high hopes for her eventual destiny." He tched and fixed Victor with a steely eye. "Yours too, if you'd only cooperated."

"Yes, well, perhaps you're just not that good a psychiatrist to those over the age of twelve," Victor replied, putting his hands on his hips before realizing he was adopting Alice's favorite scolding position. _Oh dear – apparently in her absence, I'm turning into her. Then again, there are worse fates._ "And while I agree she needs more help, surely there must be a place she can receive it from other than Rutledge! She'd never return willingly, Dr. Bumby, you know that! And from what she's told me, it's – it's little more than a g-glorified torture chamber!"

"Alice exaggerates, Victor," Dr. Bumby said with a patronizing shake of the head. "It's a hallmark of her psychosis. Your tendency to swallow everything she tells you without the merest hint of skepticism will get you into trouble one day. Rutledge is quite well run, with an excellent staff and the latest treatments. They know how to handle her there."

"I bet they do," Victor muttered, thinking of cold saltwater baths and electric shocks. "Dr. Bumby, you forget I've met someone from Rutledge, and he–"

He stopped, the wheels turning in his head. "Yes?" Bumby prompted impatiently.

"He treated Alice. You should write Dr. Wilson!"

Bumby blinked, regarding him with puzzled eyes. "Heironymous Wilson, you mean? I was given to believe the man had retired."

"From Rutledge, yes, but he still does private consulting – he's the very first psychiatrist I ever saw! And the friendliest and most patient, I might add," Victor said, not caring if Bumby took offense. "And he's the one with the most experience with Alice. Surely it would be in everyone's best interest for him to take a look at her first?"

Dr. Bumby pursed his lips, scrunched up his nose, then nodded, sighing. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you do have a point. I suppose I should at least seek his advice." His eyes narrowed. "But that won't stop me from going to Rutledge tomorrow, mind. We need all the help we can get recapturing her. And your method of just waiting around for something lucky to happen doesn't appear to be working." He smirked. "Unless you're convinced that rabbit of hers will eventually come to life and hop down the street to wherever she is?"

"Do excuse me, but you know very well I'd be out walking the streets every day if I could," Victor replied testily. " _You're_ the one who's keeping me busy here with dusting and mopping."

"Someone has to help keep the place tidy while my obstinate maid is off gallivanting through frivolous fripperies," Dr. Bumby snapped. "Not to mention your little problem with the local pimps." Victor did his best to hide a wince at the reminder of Splatter. "Besides which, I've watched you two together for quite some time, and – some of your behavior has been less than appropriate."

"I – what?"

"The constant holding of hands, the lack of regard for personal space, the far too familiar way of using her given name. . .I know we're not on Saville Row, but the way you carry on is inexcusable for mere friendship. Alice does not need you making an idiot of yourself just because–"

"Dr. Bumby, I love her!"

Victor started backward, shocked to hear the words escape his mouth. He hadn't actually meant to say that – it had just somehow slipped out during an unprotected moment. Still, everyone else seemed to be guessing that he was in love with Alice – Dr. Bumby probably already knew on some level too. And Victoria _had_ said that he should stop keeping it all inside, more or less. . . .

Dr. Bumby stared at him. Then his face darkened. "You know nothing of love," he spat.

Victor's hackles rose. How dare this cold-hearted crow say that? "I know more than you," he shot back, causing the doctor to stiffen. "Love is what drove me to fight a madman wielding a sword armed with only a barbecue fork. Love is what helped me bring peace to a broken young lady after years of sadness and regret underground. And love – love stronger than any other I've known – is what inspires all of that 'inexcusable' behavior. Is what keeps me looking for her despite so many days of failure. Is what gives me hope that she can be well even after everyone else has given up on her. Including you." He looked Bumby straight in the eye. "You can send her to Rutledge. You can wash your hands of her. You can tell everyone she's a lost cause – but you can't stop me loving her. And you can't stop me doing everything in my power to save her."

For a moment, the expression on Bumby's face reminded Victor of the expression on Lord Barkis's right before the man had tried to put General Bonesaparte's sword between his ribs. Then it softened into general annoyance and disgust. "Twenty years old and you think you know everything," the psychiatrist grumbled. "Just get inside and make sure Three – Barney–" he corrected at Victor's hard stare "– has stopped crying. I've business to attend to."

"Of course, doctor." Victor strode past, mouth set in a thin line. "I cannot get out of here soon enough. . . ."

Fortunately, Charlie was the only one playing in the foyer for the moment, and was only too happy to direct Victor to the washroom to find his fellow patient. Victor took a moment to calm himself before knocking lightly on the door. "Barney? Are you all right?"

The door opened a crack, and Barney poked his head out, eyes red and puffy. "He's awful," he whimpered, lip stuck out in a pout.

Victor nodded, patting the young boy's hair. "I know. I hate him too."

Barney sniffed and rubbed his face. "Is he really gonna send Alice away?" he asked, sounding uncharacteristically worried. Apparently the children really did care, deep down. "Didn't know she was that sick."

"He's going to try," Victor admitted, slipping into the tiny room. "But Alice is smart, even if she is sick. I bet she won't let him. And I won't let him either, if I have my way."

"But what can _you_ do?" Barney asked as Victor helped him up the step in front of the sink.

"Write to Dr. Wilson myself, for one thing," Victor said, turning on the tap. The pipes rumbled as the water slowly chugged up them. "I don't know if he'll listen to me, but – it's worth a try. And not give whoever Dr. Bumby brings back from Rutledge a friendly welcome. And keep searching for Alice on my own, no matter what."

Barney bit his lip and rubbed his hands together. "Dr. Bumby's gonna hate you even worse," he warned. "He might do mean things to you."

"He already does," Victor said as water finally began glugging out the faucet. "I can't bring myself to care anymore." He wet his handkerchief and turned off the flow. "I'll be out of here as soon as I know Alice is safe and I can find some work." He leaned down and half-smiled as he wiped Barney's eyes. "Besides – there are lots worse things out there than Dr. Bumby."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can guess what film Harry and Fred's last names come from. :P And if you'd like Victoria's (and her man Alan's) viewpoint on what's been happening from the beginning of Chapter 16 to the end of this one, please check out my story "Card Castles In The Sky."


	18. Of Queens, Kings, and Unwanted Usurpers

Queensland

"You know. . .I really did expect it to be – pinker."

Alice frowned as she walked across the jagged hunk of stone that had once been the start of a long and elegant bridge. Queensland looked uglier than ever – ugly and _dry_. She'd gotten a few glimpses of it as she'd navigated the twists and turns of the slide – rotten chunks of tentacle curling overhead, shattered towers reaching toward the sky in the distance – but it had taken landing in the very heart of the realm (no pun intended) to show her the true desolation of the world. The ground (what she could see of it) was as brown as the Vale of Doom, baked rock hard by the steadfast heat of the sun. Here and there, huge fissures opened wide, swallowing chunks of debris crumbling off the once-proud path. The air was filled with a sour-smelling mist, blurring her vision and making it just that much harder to breathe. Her Majesty's favorite appendages, so recently a threat, now stood stiff as dead trees in the light breeze, their flesh desiccated and pockmarked with large holes, or hanging off in tatters. Alice got the feeling that if she touched one, it would dissolve into a cloud of dust. And the castle – when she'd first seen Heart Palace, she'd been horrified by just how _alive_ it looked, built of pulsating bricks of red flesh, pouring fountains of blood and bile, and of course the ever-present tentacles. Now. . .now everything was dull and gray, the fountains dried up, the bricks turned to stone, the tentacles fossilized and holding on through sheer habit. There was still a grandness to it, but it was the grandness of decay – of watching one of the great wonders of the world be reclaimed by time. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as they said. _But it makes no sense._ _How can she be alive if her domain's in such disarray?_ _The Queen of Hearts I knew would have never put up with this for a moment._

A flash of orange and white and a familiar tinkling noise drew Alice's attention upward, to another hunk of bridge leaning over her own. "Back to admire your handiwork?" the Cheshire Cat asked, grinning at her from above a heart shaped in rusted wrought iron. "Returning to the scene of the crime?"

Oh no. Nobody got to tell her off for what she'd done to the Queen. Especially not Cheshire. "It had to be done, Cat, you said so yourself," she reminded the infuriating feline, hands on her hips as she glared. "'You and this Red Queen cannot both survive. She is a cancer in your body. Excise her or perish.'"

Cheshire's smile turned wicked. "Well, she was the face of evil, in the heart of darkness," he agreed, ears bending back as he leaned forward. "But evil's face changes rather quickly these days, and while her heart is still dark, it's not as dark as Ruin."

"Maybe not, but she's still a monster," Alice snapped. "Why defend her in the slightest, Cat? She didn't treat _you_ too well last time – lost your head as I recall." Her arms dropped to her sides as the memory flared up like a forgotten log in the fireplace. Cheshire vanishing and reappearing in a constant dance, smile in place and voice calm but eyes more anxious than she'd ever seen. . .the door behind him suddenly creaking open as he tried to explain why the Red Queen was such a threat. . .the tentacle slamming down on him, cutting off his words in an agonized scream. . .his body falling limp in front of her, neck gushing blood, his head tumbling across the floor, still smiling despite it all. . .and then she was on her knees, throat raw with passion as she shrieked and sobbed. . .he'd been the last one, the final friend to stand by her side. . .the Queen had taken _everything_ from her. . . .

She jerked herself back to the present, glad suddenly of the wind blowing her hair into her face so as to hide the threatening tears. _No_ _,_ she reminded herself. _Don't dwell on that. You avenged him – him and Gryphon and the White Queen and all the others. They're f-well, Gryphon's not fine, and I don't know how the Pale Realm fares, but Cheshire's as well as a cat so skeletal can be. You threw every last bit of pain she'd inflicted on you back in her face so she could choke on it! For all the good it did. . .ugh! Why does nothing stay dead that I_ want _to stay dead? What's next? Will the Jabberwock suddenly reconstitute himself from the ether so as to make my life even more miserable? His wings had better not come with the rest of him if that's the case; trying to hit him while he's in the air is a task and a half–_

"It's a unique person who can get lost in thought when she already is."

Trust Cheshire to always know the right way to annoy her out of her daze. "And it's a unique cat who can lose one of his nine lives to a beast and then turn around and give it the benefit of the doubt," she snapped back. "The Queen tore Wonderland to pieces, and now you claim she _wasn't_ wicked?"

"Oh no, no one's saying that. She was completely deranged," Cheshire said, tail flicking from side to side. "The world was a much better place when you picked up her crown. But now you've put it _down_. A monster she was – but at least she was _our_ monster." He gestured with a paw toward the crumpled remains of the palace. "You must speak to her. What's _left_ of her anyway."

"What's–"

But he was already gone, vanishing just as his perch succumbed to gravity and tumbled into the abyss. Alice swallowed and looked back out across the shattered landscape. _"Off with her head,"_ drifted on the wind, and whether it was a memory or the Queen's true voice Alice couldn't be sure. She bit her lip. Cross this insanely dangerous domain to speak to a woman – a _thing_ – that had spent almost a decade twisting and corrupting Wonderland into a hell worthy of the worst fire-and-brimstone preachers, and a year doing everything in its power to murder the world's savior and condemn them all to agony. . .and ask it for its help. That was where this search for memory, for closure, had brought her. Was it really worth it?

_"What an inquisitive little girl you are! Not that I mind. Any daughter of mine is going to have a well-developed brain before we send her out into the world."_

_"You do set a lovely tea table, my darling. Oh, you learned from your friend the Hatter? I was wondering why you'd set more places than dolls."_

_"Don't worry, Alice – Reginald's not worth the attention. And if he even thinks about being mean to you again, I'll be on him like a rabid dog. Sisters look out for each other."_

Alice set her jaw and started forward. Yes. It was.

* * *

"Graaaawww–"

"Oh, go away!"

The ground shook as Alice slammed the Hobby Horse – now heavy black steel, with an enraged glare to match – into it, sending the last few Card Guards flying. "I was hoping I'd slaughtered the lot of you after my first assault on the castle!" she snapped as they twitched and groaned. Then she paused and considered her enemies, all blue-tinted claws and trailing guts. "Actually, I did, didn't I? I simply didn't expect you to get back up again."

Most of the current group didn't, the fight having literally been beaten out of them. One lone Diamond, however, managed to rise to his feet in a glow of red light. He lunged like a clumsy lion, roaring defiance from a skull carved with the image of his suit. Alice nimbly dodged his fingers and jabbed her Vorpal Blade through the Diamond-shaped hole in his middle. "You should be proud – you and your compatriots are easily one of the most disturbing things I've seen in all my travels," she commented as she cut the monster down for good. "I guess I should really just be grateful your particular undead state renders you incapable of using weapons." She grimaced as she recalled the stab of sharp diamonds in her flesh and the deafening explosions of homing hearts. "The Drowned Sailors throwing bombs my way was quite enough, thank you."

The Diamond gave no response but a last pathetic moan as it crumbled away to dust. Alice flicked the blood off her blade, then rounded the courtyard gathering up the spoils of war. Golden teeth and glittering roses aplenty this time – Wonderland was getting generous in her old age. _Then again, this place is so permeated with death, there's probably meta-essence to spare,_ Alice thought, wrinkling her nose.

It was true – there were more corpses here than just Card Guards. The dried and dusty excuse for a front garden was littered with scenes of a different battle, one that had gone well for neither side. A White Rook lay half-buried in the dirt to her left, his once-mighty ivory riddled with holes. A Red Bishop stood before her, tangled in vines, like some weird topiary. Behind lay a pair of Knights, the White snapped from his base, the Red so rotted he barely resembled either a horse or a human. There would be no more war for this lot – the ultimate checkmate had come to both.

"Ergh. . . ."

Well, almost. With a start, Alice realized that the White King – trapped in the archway that led to the castle proper, wrapped in thick tentacles that time had turned to stone – had somehow survived the slaughter. Was this the Queen's idea of a joke – keep him alive just to watch his troops wither and die, without a friendly hand to save them? "Your Majesty?"

"Alice?" The King strained his weak eyes, the only bit of him aside from his mouth that he could move. "Are you here to put an end to the game?"

"I'm surprised it hasn't ended already," Alice said, climbing up the broken stone to visit the monarch properly. "The Red Kingdom's in ruins, but you're no better off."

The White King sighed softly. "When you defeated her, I tried to reclaim the castle," he explained, the echoes of old battles underlying his words. "But I was set upon by her monstrosities. The malignant royal bitch still reigns."

"What language from someone so regal! Not that I disagree," Alice said, hands on her hips as she smirked. Then she frowned as something poked at her brain. "But why did you need to take the castle at all? I know you and Red are always tangled up in something or other, but my defeating their King _had_ to count for something."

"No rules, remember?" the White King responded, tone incredibly bitter. "Even without her King, she was still the most powerful piece on the board. She had to be stopped entirely." His frown grew deeper. "Never mind that she was never supposed to be a player."

"Never supposed to be a player?" Alice echoed, even more puzzled. That made no sense even for Wonderland – and especially not for the Looking-Glass Kingdom. Of course the Red Queen was a player, she –

She. . .

_"Where do you come from? And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers all the time."_

_"It's time for you to answer now; open your mouth a_ little _wider when you speak, and always say 'Your Majesty.'"_

 _"You may call it 'nonsense' if you like, but_ I've _heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!"_

_"You can't be a Queen, you know, until you've passed the proper examination."_

_"It's too late to correct it; when you've once said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences."_

. . .wasn't the Queen of Hearts.

The jolt was fantastic, nearly making Alice stumble off the edge of the little cliff behind her. How had she managed to mix the two? Forget that they were in charge of two vastly different kingdoms; they were also almost as different as night and day! The Queen of Hearts was a passionate toddler, capable of throwing fits on top of fits; the Red Queen was a bad-tempered schoolteacher, more pedantic than even Nanny's old friend Prickett! The only thing they really had in common was their favorite colors! And yet somehow, once she'd introduced them to each other, they'd gotten along fairly well –

 _Until the Queen of Hearts needed a new army,_ Alice realized, teeth digging into her lip. _She must have killed the original Queen to seize control of the Reds. And when I finally showed up to set things right – I thought it odd that those miners referred to her as the Red Queen, but it didn't seem important. And soon enough I was using the same epithet – and oh dear, did I ever take the consequences!_ "My apologies," she said, pressing a gloved hand to her forehead. "What with the madness I had to deal with the first time around, the fact she shouldn't have that title slipped my mind. A lot of things did, honestly," she added in a lower voice, thinking of crystal houses, glittering glasses, and glowing syringes. So many memories buried, so many old wounds bleeding anew. . . .

She shook her head and met her friend's gaze again. "I'll strip her of that particular role later – for now, I have to stay on her good side," she said, though not without a touch of regret. "I'm here to petition her for help in saving Wonderland, insane as it sounds. I must get inside."

"The only way in is through me," the White King declared, lifting his chin a fraction. "Sacrifices must be made."

The King had a talent for making echoes of the past reverberate through her head, it seemed. Something about the word "sacrifice" put her right back in the asylum, Pris standing over her with a bucket of water. _"_ _Oh, I know you don't like the cold, dearie, but it's not like anyone else gets any better_ _,"_ she said in mock-sympathetic tones. _"_ _If we started showing you special treatment, then where would we be? Sacrifices must be made and all that!"_ Or perhaps instead she was in the hallway at Houndsditch, listening to Nell Van Dort say goodbye to her son: _"Behave yourself, and listen to this one for a change, will you? We've all done our part to help you get better! You know the things I've sacrificed!"_ Hell, the White King himself wasn't free from blame on this – who was it who'd sent his own daughter into danger with her when she'd gone to checkmate Red and save the White Queen? Alice scowled, false fingernails digging into her hipbones. "Those who say so _usually_ mean they should be made by others."

"Cynicism is a disease!" the White King informed her. "It can be cured."

"I find cynicism very valuable in keeping me alive," Alice retorted.

"In the proper amounts only. You'll die a slow death from lack of hope."

"I don't _lack_ hope, I just–" Victor's face popped into her mind, smiling shyly, stubborn against all odds, still with a touch of wide-eyed idealism despite coming up on a year in the East End. "–let it go around outside of me," she decided, indulging in a brief smile of her own. With a sigh, she added, "And I already know what you're going to say on the subject of me and matrimony, so do you mind if we skip it?"

To her surprise, the White King chuckled. "No use in belaboring the point," he agreed. "If memory serves, you'll come to your senses soon enough." His expression turned serious again. "But hear this – once inside the castle, beware the outsized killer who patrols her domain. Never confront him – he is invincible. My wife made that mistake." His eyes narrowed. "Now _cut me loose_. I'll show you the meaning of sacrifice."

The man meant business, anyone could see that. But Alice still hesitated, taking a moment to walk up and down the outer wall. Perversely, time had apparently passed this piece of the edifice by. No crumbling gaps, no loose bricks, no fibrous membranes hiding a hole. Nothing at all she could use to slip through any other way. She sighed as she returned to the King and summoned her Hobby Horse. "I don't want to do this," she whispered, stomach heavy. "You're one of the few who always treated me decently."

"If that blasted Train keeps running rampant, I'm doomed anyway," the White King said, though his voice was kind. "I'd rather be useful in my death."

Alice bit her lip and nodded. "Godspeed, White King," she whispered. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised the Horse high and swung with all her might.

The ivory, cracked and brittle with age, seemed to explode as the muzzle of the Horse met the stomach of the King. A fine shower of white dust filled the air, swallowing the tentacles and dragging them into nothingness as well. Alice coughed and waved the cloud from her face. Nothing left of the monarch now, except half his face, twisted in agony, and his tarnished crown hanging from the very top of the arch. Alice curtsied – it only seemed right. "Checkmate, friend – for now. Once I'm done, I'll return you to the Pale Realm – and the _true_ Red Queen to her Crimson." She jogged through the newly-cleared opening, glaring at the deep scarlet doors of the entrance hall. "As for the false one. . .she has a _lot_ to answer for."

* * *

_Snicker-snack!_

The remaining Club tumbled to the ground in a spray of blood, leaving behind a small rose and a handful of teeth. Alice swept them up with a wave of her arm, sighing. "You know, I shouldn't be this _bored_ with you already," she informed the crumbling body. "But two packs in, and I've already realized you're all the same. A flash of fangs, a stumbling snatch – all you've got going for you is the fact you can rise from the dead again, and even that happens only once. And only if I don't get a chance to crush the life out of you with the Horse beforehand." She idly twirled the Vorpal Blade on the tip of her finger. "I guessed from the state of the castle I wasn't going to get an enthusiastic welcome, but if you're the only soldiers the Queen has left, then I'm not even sure why I was–"

A wet spluching noise cut through her musings like a knife through butter (or perhaps the Blade through Jabberwock flesh). Alice spun around to see fresh blood spurting through the hardened web of flesh covering the far wall of what she'd guessed was a receiving room of some sort. The blade of an enormous scythe poked through the cut, followed shortly by a red-booted foot and a mass of pink tentacles. Alice hastily flicked the Blade back into her hand and braced herself. _All right, this should be rather more interesting. . . ._

Another squish, a soft grunt – and the biggest Card Guard Alice had ever seen emerged from the wound, shaking red from its shoulders. It was truly a hideous beast – a terrible Frankensteinain conglomeration of Clubs, Diamonds, Spades, and Hearts. Stitches crisscrossed the creature's mismatched body, and his arms and legs were riddled with pits and holes. The only reason he seemed capable of any movement were the tentacles that squirmed through his back and sides, holding him together despite all odds. One particularly large one had even kindly formed itself into a kind of ruff to support his skull-like head, while two smaller ones poked through his eye sockets, wriggling like fat pink maggots. His down-turned mouth, full to the brim with shark-sharp teeth, was the only bit of his face she could get a proper look at. The rest of his head was covered by a pink Joker's cap, with two striped horns completing his devil's facade. His scythe was similarly striped, complimenting his marriage of red and black – though what interested Alice the most about it was the shining hook on its business end. _"Beware the outsized killer,"_ the White King had warned so recently – well, this was surely him.

The beast – Alice mentally named him The Executioner, since who else could he be in service to the Queen of Hearts? – didn't take long to spot her. He glared at her, letting out a deep, furious roar before lumbering forward. Alice shot backward in a flutter of blue wings. "Oh yes, now _this_ is a challenge," she said, strafing left and right so he couldn't get a proper lock on her. Then she smirked and pulled her (now shiny silver) Teapot Cannon from the ether. "Or, well, you would be," she qualified, charging it up to the limit of its power, "if not for _this!_ "

 _PI-CHUCK!_ The steaming grenade flew straight and true, landing right on the Executioner's head and coating him with boiling tea. Alice switched back to her Blade and darted in, ready to carve the monster's flesh once it –

"Raaaah-ha-ha-ha!"

 _Did – did that thing just_ laugh _?!_

Alice didn't have more than a second to ponder the question – the scythe whirled through the air, and only the fact that she could jump like a kangaroo stopped her getting cleaved in two. _But that's not right at all!_ she thought, racing away from another slice. _That Cannon stuns anything and everything! He can't possibly be immune!_ Whipping around, she yanked it out and tried another blast.

The Executioner didn't even pretend to notice this one – he just marched toward her, slow but steady as the proverbial tortoise. Alice switched to the Pepper Grinder, but this had even less effect – the peppercorns just bounced off him, as if his body was hardest stone. _No, no,_ something _has to work –_ She waited for him to strike again, dodged around to his rear, and went at his leg with the Vorpal Blade.

And her most loyal weapon, the one that had helped fell her most dangerous and deadly foes – couldn't even inflict the equivalent of a paper-cut.

The beast's mocking laughter at least gave her a chance to put some distance between them. Unfortunately, there wasn't much room to be had here, and with her way back blocked by doors sealed shut with fresh meaty growth, Alice was quickly reduced to running in circles to stay one step ahead of her foe. _Didn't I tell you he was_ invincible _?_ the King's voice asked in her head.

"I thought to you and yours, not _me_!" Alice replied, bursting into butterflies to avoid a lethal swipe. "Oh, I'm an idiot! Don Quixote had a better chance with his windmills – and without risk of decapitation!"

"A prudent exit is no less so for being hasty!"

Alice's head jerked right to see the Cheshire Cat atop a tiny flight of stairs right next to the candle-strewn wall the Executioner had sliced through. Before she could demand to know where she should exit _to_ , he turned around and shoved the double doors behind him open with a paw. "The ferret is certainly up your dress this time, Alice! Run!"

"Thank you!" Alice yelled, choosing to ignore his comment in favor of bolting for the opening. The Executioner turned to follow, but she slammed the doors closed behind her before he could catch up. She leaned heavily against them, taking a moment to catch her breath. She had no illusions the fragile wood would stop the monster for long, but it gave her maybe half a minute to prepare herself, at least. She looked in all directions as she gathered her wits – in a hall now, or what was left of one. God knew where it led – if it led anywhere at all. _On the other hand, I only need it to_ _lead_ _away from here!_ Forcing her burning legs to move, she took off for the far end.

And not a moment too soon – with an unearthly growl, the Executioner burst through the doors, tentacles squishing most unpleasantly. He promptly resumed his pursuit, spinning his scythe before him like a whirling windmill of doom. _If I gave him that idea, that would be irony at its finest – and most painful_ _,_ Alice thought, grimacing as she heard the blade scrape against the paving, sending sparks flying in her peripheral vision. _Oh God where do I go where do I go where do I –_

A flash of metal set into a mound of old flesh on the wall caught her eye, and she promptly shrunk, vanishing into the keyhole. The Executioner screamed rage behind her, and poked a long finger into the gap in an attempt to fish her out, but Alice was still running, and was soon out of his reach. She had no idea where _this_ tiny tunnel of dried-out meat led either, and she didn't care. All she wanted to put as much distance between herself and that _thing_ as possible.

It actually wasn't long at all before she reached the other end, popping back to her normal size in what looked like the castle's chapel. Alice leaned heavily on her knees in front of the wax-stained and flesh-twisted organ (the musical kind, though she wouldn't have been surprised to have been confronted with a giant fossilized heart), panting. "Oh. . .is that. . .now going. . .to be. . .a theme. . .around here?"

Cheshire flashed into existence beside her. "The Queen's guardian rarely leaves his filthy lair," he said, before smirking and touching her foot. "But you're special."

"Wonderful," Alice grumbled, rubbing her neck. "The last thing I need is to end up like Paul."

"This demesne _does_ seem rather lacking in cockroaches."

Alice glared at him. "This isn't a time for joking! If I die before I can see Victor again. . .you lot just _couldn't_ wait for me to get back to Houndsditch and say I'm sorry, could you?"

"Keeping royalty waiting is bad manners, you know." He sighed as her gaze sharpened. "Alice, if you trust me on nothing else, trust me on this – we would all love nothing more than to let you spend as much time with that boy as you wish. But the situation is urgent."

"I know, I know," Alice grumbled, wiping sweat out of her eyes. "I had to remind myself of that earlier. It's just – it stings, it really does."

"Worse than that will happen if you don't keep on your course," Cheshire replied. "But you're welcome to come to an epiphany or two about him among everything else."

"I've _had_ my epiphany about him – he's not insane," Alice shot back. "And he needs someone to save him from having to spend any more time in that horrible Home!"

Cheshire tilted his head, ears cocked toward her. "Why, fair enough. An epiphany about yourself, then."

"Isn't that the point of this whole trip? Especially this leg of it?"

Cheshire's grin widened. "At last you start using that marvelous brain of yours. I look forward to seeing what other knowledge you acquire."

And then he vanished, leaving Alice to roll her eyes. "Vexatious feline," she muttered, straightening up. "The only knowledge that I'm likely to gain here is bad." She frowned, the image of a burning house and an innocent cat leaping out her window flickering across her vision. "But then again. . .perhaps that's just the sort of knowledge I need."

* * *

"'Waste Wing.' Well, I'll give you this, Your Majesty – you certainly have good sense in naming the various parts of your castle. Though, personally, I consider this whole wretched maze of a palace a waste."

The air seemed to grow slightly colder, but the Queen didn't otherwise respond – apparently the woman had run out of angry proclamations and taunts for the moment. Alice shrugged and passed under the flaking red letters. "Also, don't think your little trick just now will stop me taking the Reds away from you," she added as she climbed the stairs. "I've been White's pawn before, and earned my own queendom through it – even if it didn't last." She stepped into the grand remains of another wide hall, this one hung with tattered red curtains. "Forcing me through the occasional distressingly simple puzzle just convinces me all the more you shouldn't be allowed to play chess."

_Chuck-chuck-chuck-CHUNK!_

Alice started and turned. Behind her now lay a heavy iron gate, barring any return into the Least Wing. She rolled her eyes. "You missed," she informed the ceiling. "And as if I'm going to object to anything that keeps that damn pet of yours off my back." Ugh – why on earth had she asked for a challenge in this horrible place? Dodging death by scythe was already fraying her nerves. The only good thing she could say about the bastard was that he didn't distinguish between friend and foe – if you were in the way of his swing, you were going to meet your maker. It at least kept her from having to worry too much about the lesser Guards and ubiquitous Ruin that kept popping up with him.

_Oink, oink. . . ._

Alice's gaze shifted forward slightly. Mounted on one of the stone pillars lining the left wall was the closest pig snout she'd seen in a while, snuffling away right above her head. "You know, it really would have been in your best interest to send the Duchess into hiding again," she commented with a grin as she pulled out her Pepper Grinder (carved like a boar now, with flaming eyes). "My hunt for these grunting little – creatures? – has led me to all sorts of goodies I'm sure you don't want me to have. Or are you as addicted to bacon as she?"

The Queen still refused to speak, though at least she didn't try to send anything toppling onto her head either. Alice let her be and focused on the snout. After a few seconds of intense firing, the sneeze she was hoping for echoed through the chamber. As it did, a door Alice hadn't noticed before fell open a crack. She promptly slipped through, hoping for a bulging basket. _I'm almost done upgrading, but Yves told me both my Horse and Cannon can be transformed once more. . . ._

Sadly, she was stymied again – behind the door was a little side room with not much to recommend it beyond the usual display of mangled masonry and fossilized flesh. But there were a couple of golden teeth to collect in the corners – and a shimmering house set between two heart altars, beckoning her to touch. Alice crossed her fingers before caressing the crystal's surface. "Please be a nice one, please. . . ."

_"Lizzie!"_

_"Oh!"_

_Lizzie nearly fell off her bed in surprise, her book flying away and hitting the wall. Alice was torn between laughter and running to her sister's aid – she compromised by doing both at once. "Are you all right, Lizzie?" she asked between giggles, trying to push her upright again._

_"Yes, yes," Lizzie assured her, waving her away as she regained her balance. "Though I'm not sure I can say the same for Mr. Bell's prose. . .what were you thinking, scaring me like that?" she added, frowning at her sibling._

_"I wanted to ask if you would play hopscotch with me," Alice replied, all innocence._

_"And the fact I had the door shut didn't mean anything to you?"_

_"I knew you weren't getting dressed. Again."_

_"Look, it's not my fault that society – and tailors – demand an adult woman wear at least two gowns per day." Lizzie shook her head. "I was reading, Alice. You know I want privacy when I read."_

_"If you_ really _wanted privacy, you'd_ lock _your door," Alice said, imitating Nanny's favorite scolding position with her hands on her hips. "That's what Mama and Papa do when they want me to keep out."_

_"Well, I'm not Mama or Papa, and I think a closed door is perfectly reasonable for privacy purposes," Lizzie declared, folding her arms and putting her nose in the air._ _**"A locked room is little more than a cage. A prison by another name. I despise concealment of any kind."** _

_"Oh, so I should tell Papa about how you_ _climbed out the window when he grounded you?_ _"_

Alice giggled as her sister's stunned, furious face crumbled away, revealing the Queen's castle once again. "What a little brat I was! I'm surprised you didn't give me a wallop then and there. Though really, to say one despises concealment and then threaten me to hold my tongue about that. . .oh, but I shouldn't tease. You really were a very open and–"

 _"The key, Lizzie! Unlock the door! You'll_ burn _!"_

Unlock the door?

_Unlock the door?_

Humor vanished in an instant, driven out by cold shock. Why would Papa say such a thing? Lizzie had never locked her door in her life! Not even in the wake of one of the kitchen boys surprising her in _dishabille_ while summoning her to breakfast! _"Of course it was embarrassing, Elizabeth – that's why you need to lock your door!"_ Mama had scolded her afterward, but Lizzie had stuck by her guns: _"I don't like feeling like I can't go where I wish! Besides, usually the only ones who insist on intruding while I'm dressing are the cats."_ She should have been the first one to escape the night of the fire! There was absolutely no reason for her to have locked everyone else out!

 _Unless. . .someone locked her_ in _._

The very thought rattled Alice's bones. If that was the case. . . . _Oh dear God – was someone trying to_ murder _my sister?! But who would dare do such a thing? People_ liked _Lizzie –_ _she almost never quarreled with the servants (and they were all at their own homes by the time it started anyway), and she had plenty of friends around town._ _I can't think of a single enemy she might have –_

 _The undergraduates. God knows she sent enough of them away with their tails between their legs. . .but these were students at_ Oxford _! Intelligent and well-bred young men! S_ _urely none of them could have been so broken up by his rejection to try – to try –_

_"Was it the Awful One again?"_

The doors banged against the pillars as Alice flew out of the side chamber, eyes as bright with fury as her Pepper Grinder's. The pieces were coming together now, and the picture they formed. . . . _Which one of you bastards tried to kill my family?!_

* * *

_"Once the bounder followed me into the ladies at Waterloo station! I had to call the attendant!"_

"Oh, so that's what she meant by 'hoping I'd be in it again' back in Cardbridge. . .and I thought this lurker couldn't get any worse. . . ."

Alice shuddered as she came out of the memory, suddenly glad she hadn't had anything to eat for a while. Surely it would have all come up again after that revelation. _One must wonder how I managed to forget the extent of poor Lizzie's hounding by this bastard,_ she thought, slicing through the withered pustules that also occupied this tiny hollow in the Queen's castle's guts. _Of course, one might also wonder why my older sister was telling all this to her eight-year-old sibling. . .then again, wasn't she afraid to tell Papa for some reason? I know she said she didn't want to tell the other girls in town for fear they'd call it 'romantic' – we see what reading too much Gothic literature with brooding, obsessive male leads gets you. Oh, Lizzie. . .if it hadn't been for me, you would have felt utterly alone in the world, wouldn't you?_

She sighed and shrank, running back through the keyhole and into the vessel-like tunnel that had led her here. Queensland was being disturbingly informative on the Saga of the Unwanted Suitor, and she didn't like it. The horrors of the Palace were quite enough without being confronted with the Ghost of Gits Past. And frankly, she wasn't sure just how much she could trust the bits of crystal offered up within these walls. She'd only just run into one supposedly from her mother, screaming for her to stay with them, not abandon them to the flames. . .only to see Rutledge's walls appear around her for a split-second before the memory faded. _A recollection of a hallucination is quite the curious thing. . .but it throws everything else I've discovered into doubt. Is the Queen just toying with my mind, hoping to drive me further into madness by muddying my past beyond recognition?_

Some inner instinct told her that wasn't the case, though – at least, not with the memory she'd just picked up. There'd been a solidity to it that defied it being a fabrication. Besides, muddying her past was more Bumby's purview than the Queen's. . .was he the one responsible for her not recalling the Saga before now? Something about that tickled her brain. . . .

Her feet went "squish" beneath her, and Alice decided the thought could wait until she'd found her way out of the meaty, blood-flecked landscape the Executioner had sent her to after their last confrontation. She wrinkled her nose as she gazed across this latest chamber of horrors – did everything here have to smell like a pile of steaks left out in the sun for too long? _At least this one doesn't contain anything that pulses. . .or any of those pink-tinted Ruins. And I thought they couldn't be any more disturbing. . . ._

Actually, there wasn't much to this chamber at all – just a few hunks of circular stone floating in mid-air over what she _hoped_ was simple rubble. They looked just a bit too far apart to reach via even her incredibly useful float. . .she shrank, and a network of invisible platforms appeared, glowing purple against the swirling red storm filling the sky. _That makes more sense, but how do I get to the first?_

A pink-nailed hand gripping a chain on a platform to her left provided the answer – a couple of pairs of those twinned weights she'd had to navigate earlier clanked into position, ready to be manipulated at will. Alice already knew the drill with these – drop a Clockwork Bomb onto the first so it fell, run like mad over whatever ground (or crayon, in this case) was provided to the second, then immediately jump off it onto the higher piece of earth or stone it was next to or risk having to find your way back to do it all over again. Not quite as annoying as that one silly door in Cardbridge, but still something she'd had to practice a couple of times back in the Least Wing before getting quite right.

Now, though, it all felt old hat. She bounced her way across the first set with ease, tossing the Bomb down behind her carelessly and navigating the invisible path as if she did so for a living. ( _If only I could! Now that would be an interesting way of making my bread. . . ._ ) The second pair seemed a bit trickier, being farther away from each other with a thinner path between, but Alice took advantage of her butterfly trick to speed things up a bit and made it onto the second weight with time to spare. _Excellent! Now onto that ledge and – wait a moment, what's that?_

She frowned, jumping in place on the weight to keep it from sinking down too much. There was another ledge below the one she was aiming for, littered with a few more of those dried-up eyeballs, a Shrinking Violet waving hello – and a crystal butterfly. Suddenly, she was faced with a dilemma. Did she jump down there and gather the goodies, knowing full well she wouldn't be able to reach the upper portion of the flesh-lined stone and would have to figure out a way to reset the weights? Or did she bypass them in favor of getting out of this horrible place faster and possibly miss something important? Victor's memories, while generally sweet, didn't seem to hold any special significance when compared with some of the others she had collected. . . .

On the other hand, a friendly voice in this land of stormy skies raining globs of blood and tongues crawling about on the freshly-skinned floor would be most welcome. _I'm a sentimental fool_ , she decided, taking the leap and landing right next to the Violet. _But you never know – something quite interesting might be hidden in this butterfly._ _At the very least, it has to be better than the images I've been getting from Lizzie's houses!_ Shuddering again over the thought of some sick fellow finding it advisable to invade the ladies' loo to proclaim his love, she smashed the eyeballs, let the Violet give her a quick massage, then shattered the memory.

_"All right, I must admit – it does feel good to get outside after yesterday's pea-souper."_

_"See? I told you a little fresh air would do you good," Victor said, patting her back. "And before you say anything, yes, I'm well aware this hardly counts as 'fresh.'"_

_Alice tittered. "Oh dear, I've become much too predictable, haven't I? I'll have to think up some new insults for this city." Her expression soured. "If my wardrobe doesn't attempt to scare me out of my wits again. I suppose I should just be grateful I didn't completely wreck my umbrella."_

_"I'd – I'd happily buy you a new one."_

_"I know you would, but you shouldn't have to. If I destroy my possessions in a delusional haze, I should be the one responsible for replacing them. Makes me feel just a bit more in control of my own destiny."_

_"I can sympathize with that," Victor admitted, twiddling with his tie. "We should go into business for ourselves."_

_"Doing what? Me acting mental and you drawing it for the amusement of passers-by?"_

_"Some men like a girl who acts a little looney."_

_Alice started, then turned to glare at Jack Splatter. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, they can find some other lunatic. I don't like most men who like those kinds of girls."_

_"This is a private conversation," Victor added, eyebrows already dangerously flat._

_"That why you're havin' it right in the middle of the street?" Splatter asked, lounging against a nearby streetlamp. He turned a piranha's smile onto Alice. "And you're missing out on a real opportunity there. Plenty of folks willing to give you a good pound or two for screaming and scratching and generally carryin' on."_

_"So send them to visit Rutledge. There's plenty of that in there," Alice said, turning away with her nose in the air._

_"Most of those ain't so–" Splatter looked her up and down. Alice resisted the urge to press her arms over her chest. "Well, you ain't my type, but you're somebody's."_

_"She said no," Victor growled._

_Ah yes, time again to get Victor out of here before he did something silly. . . . "Your_ _clientele_ _are not and never will be_ my _type," she retorted, taking Victor's arm. "_ _S_ _o you may as well hush."_

_Jack shook his head, expressing long-suffering. "Women! Come on now, Liddell – it's better than wallowing in Houndsditch's stink!"_

_"If you don't leave her alone, I'll – I'll punch you!"_

_Alice's jaw dropped._ _Oh shit_ _– had Victor really said that to_ Jack Splatter _?! The pimp himself_ _was_ _staring at her friend like he'd grown a second head._ _Desperately, she tried to get her feet to move before the knife came out –_

_Then, to_ _her_ _immense relief, Splatter began to laugh._ _"Really? A skinny whelp like you is gonna lay me flat?"_

_Victor started to reply, but Alice dragged him around the corner before the words could actually leave his throat. He stumbled after her, dragging his feet, teeth grinding audibly. "That – that despicable, horrible–"_

_"Yes, no one's going to argue those adjectives with you, Victor," Alice snapped as she got them down a nearby alley. "But you seem to have forgotten 'violent' and 'murderer' apply equally well!" She whirled and pushed him up against the wall. "What in God's name were you thinking, challenging him to a fight?! Are you that eager to get back to the Land of the Dead?"_

_**"No one should talk to women the way Jack Splatter does!"** _ _Victor shot back, face red._ _**"Particularly not to you! If I hear him suggest you should start w-working the streets again, I might just–"** _ _His fingers twitched as he struggled for the words. "_ _**Well, it wouldn't be very g-gentlemanly of me, that's all I'm saying."** _

"And I'm not letting you end up as just another faceless charge on the bastard's rap sheet because of me!"

The sentence seemed to echo across the wide, empty chamber, caught in the stiflingly humid air. Alice blinked as Victor's shoulders faded away beneath her fingers, then sighed and pressed her hands against her face. Oh yes, she remembered that day. Not too long before she'd finally lost herself completely on Witless's roof, wasn't it? Victor had been doing so well in just ignoring Splatter and his prostitutes, leaving them to get on with their own business – and then _that_ had happened and he'd come this close to getting himself killed. _Why must you be so overprotective of me sometimes?_ she demanded of his image in her head. _Look, fine, it is nice to have someone willing to stand up for me. And I will give you that when you made good on that threat, you made_ very _good on it. But it ended just as I feared – with Splatter well and truly out for your blood! Don't you know how much the idea of you dying_ scares _me? Yes, you have an absolutely wonderful afterlife waiting for you (go away, guilt, we get I'm upset over being dragged here before visiting Houndsditch), so maybe it doesn't matter all that much to you but – how could I get up in the morning without seeing your half-asleep smile as you stumble out of your room? Who could I joke with and get the same absurdly-quiet laugh? What would it be like to have to walk down the street without feeling your long fingers tangled with mine? And who else would dance with me to the tune of a b_ _roken_ _music box and make me feel halfway_ normal _again?_ She swiped at her eyes and pretended she was shoving his shoulder. _I've lost everyone else I've ever loved, Victor, I can't lose –_

_I can't –_

_I. . ._

_I love you._

Alice had thought she'd gotten rather good at tolerating massive shock during her sojourn in this realm, but this – this was like being hit by a dozen lightning bolts at once. She sat down with a heavy plop, heedless of the way the "ground" oozed beneath her, staring out across the hazy abyss and not seeing a damn bit of it. This was the reason Victoria White's sudden reappearance had left her nauseous, this was the precipice her mind had feared falling over, this was why he kept appearing in her mind again and again and again, almost as much as her sister. _I love him. I_ love _him._

The pathetic thing was, it was so bloody _obvious_ how she felt from this vantage point. Victor was a relatively new addition to her life, unlike Radcliffe or Nanny or even Pris – why should he be given the honor of memories, if not because she wanted him close? And how many residents of Wonderland, not normally ones to pay that much attention to the world outside their domains, already knew of him and referred to him as "hers?" How many times had she dismissed someone bringing up the idea that they could be closer than friends? And even in the real world. . .she'd told him stories she'd shared with no one else, sought him out for comfort instead of standing alone like she was used to – she'd even allowed him the privilege of _touching_ her, after years of associating that with pain and degradation. How had she _missed_ this?

 _Because I'm incredibly good at denying anything that might give me pain,_ she thought, rubbing her face with a hand. _Caterpillar told me as much, and the memories that have been popping up around here prove it. Besides, after my education at Rutledge and Houndsditch, the very notion of my falling in love was laughable. Lesson One: If you care about someone, they will leave you one day, perhaps violently, and it will feel like you have had all your insides torn out and wound on a stick. Lesson Two: Men are brutes and beasts and you're better off leaving them to their own designs. Lesson Three: If they see softness in you, they will break you. Never betray it. I built my walls so high and thick and strong. . .and then this pale stick of a man shows up in my life and I'm laughing and smiling and dancing and just like that he's past them all! And now. . .Lesson One's still in effect, having him leave would be like the fire all over again. . .but if he stayed. . . ._

She could almost see it – a tiny flat of their own, just big enough for the two of them. A marriage at the registrar's because that was easier than raising the dead. Long walks around the city with no destination until they arrived, ridiculous conversations about how long one had to boil a Snark to render it edible or if the dead could really enjoy a good brandy or were just masters at faking it, warm nights spent wrapped in each others' arms. . . . It all gave her the exact same feeling she'd had the day she'd turned seven, spotted the White Rabbit, and chased him down the rabbit hole. _And I denied myself this for so long. . .oh Victor –_ _I love_ _you_ _,_ Alice thought, a giddy smile appearing on her face. _I love you! Of course, now the question is, do you –_

 _Of course_ _you do_ _!_ She burst out laughing at her own stupidity. _That's even more obvious than the fact_ _I love you_ _!_ _All those smiles, all those pictures, all those stolen moments at the piano_ _–_ _the piano! For the love of everything,_ _I nearly figured this out in the_ Deluded Depths _! If only I hadn't convinced myself that offer of lessons meant nothing – I could have had such a nicer month between the Depths and the East. . . . And for God's sake,_ _both_ _Nanny and Harry told me straight out that he was smitten and I ought to marry him!_ She jabbed herself in the chest. _Blind, oblivious idiot,_ she scolded herself, although she was unable to wipe the smile from her face. _How long were you going to keep this from me? I ought to box your ears._

Something about that thought – perhaps the knowledge that the Duchess had once done just that to the Queen – reminded Alice that she was still stuck in the lower levels of Heart Palace, and that if she ever wanted a chance to _act_ on her feelings, she'd better get moving. She peeled herself off the ground, wrinkling her nose at the way her skirt tried to stick to her legs (ugh), then hopped from the lowered weight to the convenient row of invisible platforms floating just above. _It's not going to be easy, you know,_ she told herself as she navigated the barely-there hints of purple back to the first metal platform. _It would take a miracle to make Nell Van Dort tolerate_ you _as a potential daughter-in-law. And it's probably better if you straighten things out with Radcliffe first, lest he accuse you of being too mentally unsound for matrimony. Plus all the typical domestic worries – where exactly are we going to live? What if Victor really_ can't _find work? What happens if we have children – children, good God. There's a possibility_ I _might have children that are directly related to me by blood. I can't tell if that's terrifying or exhilarating._

 _Exhilafying, perhaps,_ she answered herself as she dropped a fresh Clockwork Bomb and took off running. _Or terrirating. But that's all for the future. The Infernal Train has to come first. Otherwise, how could I puzzle out the rest of it?_ She beamed and twirled as she reached the other half of the weights, then finally bounced onto the ledge that might just provide an exit from this wet pink catacomb. _Right now – all I need to know is that Victor loves me, and I love him. When all else fails, I'll have that to fall back on._ She slashed through some more withered pustules, grinning wickedly. _And I won't let_ anyone _, commoner, Queen, or doctor,_ _get in the way of us being together. We both deserve some happiness._

* * *

_I am_ really _getting sick of having to run for my life!_

Alice dashed forward again, letting her butterflies carry her out of the reach of the whirling scythe. _I suppose I should be grateful that we aren't in one of the twistier parts of the maze,_ she thought as the Executioner let out another rough laugh at her attempts to flee. _But I keep waiting for another Card Guard to claw its way from the Earth – this place is depressingly thick with them! And with Ruin. . .little surprised they weren't bubblegum-colored. The Queen must not have fully gotten to that set._ She hugged the corner as she raced onward, leaves from overgrown branches smacking her in the face. _Labyrinthine Revenge indeed. . ._ _there must be some gap or_ _–_ _is that_ _a clearing?_

Alice darted out the hedge corridor, leaving the pondering Executioner to catch up at his own pace. Before her stood a rough circle of relative empty earth, covered with old grey paving stones and dotted here and there with a few decorative bits of dried-out foliage. Smack dab in the middle of it all was a rusted metal table, its dingy white paint flaking off onto the ground below. _Perhaps it was a picnic area once upon a time. . . ._ Her stomach growled angrily. _Yes I know you're almost to the point of turning me inside out just to get something inside yourself, but I can't – I – Oh thank you God!_

Alice almost jumped for joy as she spotted what was on the table – strawberry-ringed vanilla-frosted salvation. She ran around to the other side of the table, pulling out her Vorpal Blade as she did. "EAT ME," the cake declared – _Don't mind if I do!_ One snicker and one snack later, she had a slice ready for the consuming –

Just as the Executioner appeared again, scythe at the ready and eyeless sockets glaring. _Uh-oh – no time to savor this one, Alice. Down the hatch it goes!_

She almost choked from the force of shoving as much of the moist white cake in her mouth as she could, but she soldiered on, forcing herself to swallow each massive chunk as it went down. _Come on, come on,_ she thought, licking icing off her lips as the loathsome monster neared –

An almost imperceptible tingle down her spine and up her limbs, and then, just as it had when she'd first tasted this bit of bakery magic long ago, everything around her began to shrink. The hedges went from high, practically impassible walls of greenery, to easily jumped low shrubs, to bits of lichen clinging to the earth. The table and cake receded from her view until they resembled poorly-kept dollhouse furniture. And the Executioner –

looked just about ready to shit himself. He gaped up at her, scythe falling with a dull thud from suddenly-nerveless fingers. Alice smirked, allowing herself one glorious moment to savor the look of terror on his stitched-together face. Then she lifted her foot and brought it down hard.

 _SPLAT!_ The once-enormous abomination, bane of her entire trip through this wretched castle, fell like an ant beneath her heel. Blood burst from his broken body as she ground it into the dirt, staining her boot. Alice wiped it off on a nearby spray of leaves, gave her foe a final little kick for good measure, then turned and examined her surroundings.

From the look of things, she'd reached the inner courtyard of the castle – no big surprise there. The remains of Labyrinthine Revenge formed a little circle around her, while directly in front stood a set of gazebos and the desiccated bodies of more unfortunate Chessmen. Walls hemmed her in on all four sides, but they didn't look particularly strong – easily kicked down or stepped over. Past them were more "gardens" and false chessboards, and further up. . . .

Was a heart-pupiled eye, glaring at her with intense malice from where it hung under two thick pink tentacles curled around a mighty spiked tower. _So that's the Queen's inner sanctum. Appropriately disturbing, I must say._

Something whistled past her ear, and she turned to see what looked like a cannon ball smash into the ruins behind her. She squinted into the distance and just saw the ordnance from which it had sprung, mounted on another tower and preparing for a second blast. Easier to spot were the huge sores opening up all over the ground, spitting out wave after wave of Armored Card Guards. And that didn't take into account all the rubble to negotiate, and old flesh to clear. . . . For a normal-sized human, it would have been damn near impossible to push through to the Queen.

For a giant. . .Alice grinned again, eyes dark with malicious glee. "The Queen has loosed the dogs of war," she whispered to herself. "Time to raise some havoc."

* * *

_And lo, into the heart of darkness we plunge once again. . . ._

Alice slowed to a walk as she entered the Queen's throne room – the very center of Queensland. She couldn't help it – every last atom of her being wanted to be anywhere else but here. The air around her was hazy, and ripe with the smell of fresh, raw meat. Her boots squished with every step along the long catwalk, sending up tiny spurts of blood and pus. Far above her, the ceiling was a pulsating mass of tangled arteries and veins. And perched right in the middle of it, on an iron throne overgrown with lurid pink muscle and skin – _Why couldn't you stay dead?_ Alice wondered, fighting the urge to throw up. _Why couldn't you just go away? Why –_

_Why are you a little girl?_

Alice paused as she came face to face with her old nemesis. Sure enough, in place of the blank-faced slithering puppet or the horrible conglomeration of bulging fat and tentacles she'd faced before, seated on the fearsome throne was – a child. A most unusual child, to be fair – the Queen's hands were just more tentacles, formed into five long grasping fingers, and beneath her skirt there was nothing but spreading meat, connecting her permanently to her own castle. But the face. . .the face was the one she'd seen in the mirror from her seventh birthday onward, just paler. Alice even remembered the haircut the Queen wore, from the summer she'd tried to style her hair like Lizzie's. Her mother had had to cut it short to fix the damage she'd done. She didn't like the bob now any more than she had then. "I was expecting someone else," she commented, frowning.

The Queen glowered at her. "You don't know your own mind!" she declared mockingly. Her voice was a strange thing – it couldn't seem to decide on whether it was that of a grown woman or of a small girl, and kept shifting up and down in its indecision.

Alice sighed, hands on her hips as if she was ready to scold Elsie for whacking someone with a doll. "It's nearly a complete stranger," she confessed. "I feel like I don't know anything about myself anymore."

The Queen's expression sharpened to a proper glare. "What you claim not to know is merely what you've denied," she informed Alice, eyes narrowed. "You've recaptured your vagrant memories – what are you doing with them?"

"I–"

As usual, the Queen had no patience to actually _wait_ for an answer. "Nothing! You just let them pass you by!"

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" The Queen jabbed at her with her scepter. "You once rejected my attempts to control our lives – forcefully! But now. . . ." Her face screwed up as if she was resisting tears. "Now you've allowed another to succeed in my role!"

Huh – Alice had once thought the monarch had no feelings beyond rage, but it was clear that Wonderland's former ruler was genuinely upset by this. Alice spared her no pity, however. It was all the Queen deserved after the horrors she'd visited upon this realm. "I won't miss your tentacles," she said coldly.

The Queen lifted her head and scowled. "You'd prefer the hot, _stinking_ breath and unyielding attentions of a potent, unreasoning, unfeeling _hell-raiser_?" she snarled, slamming one oversized fist against the arm of her throne. "I don't think so!"

Alice stared, baffled. _Unyielding attentions? Who on earth cares enough about me to want to_ _–_

No. She couldn't be. She wouldn't think – unless she was – bloody hell, was the bitch _jealous_? Anger flared up inside Alice, hot and hungry, and it took everything she had not to immediately summon her Blade and throw it straight into this rotten creature's face. "Don't you _dare_ speak that way about Victor!" she yelled, hands bunching into fists. "Hell-raiser indeed – and you should know what one is!"

The Queen blinked and drew back. "Victor?" she said, her voice rising a few octaves. "Whatever makes you think I'm talking about _Victor_? His attentions are quite welcome, I would think." Her eyes hardened again, narrowing to slits as her words grew deep and cold. "Although why you allow yourself to ignore a perfectly good king while I'm forced to wither away here in darkness and loneliness is something I will never understand!"

Something clicked in Alice's mind then – something she hadn't considered in all the chaos of her previous visit. "Wait – where _is_ the King of Hearts?" she asked, looking around the throne room, half-expecting him to emerge as some creature made of blood and shadow.

The Queen's face remained hard as marble – but there was a watery glimmer in her eyes. "Do you think you're the only one to have lost a loved one in that fire?"

. . .This explained so much. "I'm sorry," Alice said, and she was. Sorry that the first and best check on the Queen's behavior had perished, and (to her own surprise) sorry the Queen had had to go through such agony. "I genuinely didn't know."

The Queen regarded her a moment. "He died saving me," she suddenly said, voice so low Alice had to strain to hear. "The castle was burning, and he sacrificed himself to get me out in time. And you don't even acknowledge it when you meet someone who would do the same," she continued, voice rising now with anger as she waved her scepter around. "I told you before – self-pitying dreamers are not wanted here! You still live in the shadows – you still fear the truth!"

Alice decided to ignore this, concentrating instead on the bargaining chip she'd just received. "I can bring him back," she whispered. "You know I can. But I need–" She swallowed, hardly daring to believe that such words were about to pass her lips. "I need your help first. Caterpillar said you might be willing."

The Queen didn't reply – just looked at her with an expression of utmost loathing. Alice felt her patience wear thin. "If you don't, we're _all_ doomed!"

The Queen shook her head. "Not doomed – forgotten," she corrected. "I may survive here, but _you're_ finished!" She spread one expansive hand as tentacles began wriggling out of the darkness around them. "You see the pattern of destruction, I know you do. The Train is trying to destroy all evidence of your past, and especially–" her fist closed tight "– _the fire_!" She leaned forward, her gaze disturbingly penetrating. "Now – _who_ would want that? Who benefits from your madness?"

 _"A flower's purpose is simple and immutable. Human purpose is fickle, because it is a slave to memory. Memories must be strictly managed, Alice. Unproductive ones must be_ eliminated _."_

Someone had just used the Ice Wand on her guts, she knew it. Alice clutched at her chest as it all came rushing back. Destroy all evidence of her past – _"Flush the unpleasant from your mind as you would the disgusting and depraved. Forgetting is an art!"_ – especially the fire – _"Memories, too, have a useful life. We should eliminate the ones that hurt!"_ – but he couldn't be – he was a doctor, he was supposed to _help_ – _"His hand was slimy, Alice! Like an eel from the Isis! And his name won't help –_ _ **Bumby**_ _! If he ever does qualify, his bedside manner will require improvement!"_ A picture of him formed in her mind, the undergraduate she'd forgotten, hadn't wanted to remember – a fine suit, neatly slicked-back hair, glasses glittering over a pointed beard. . .just like the shadowy figure she'd seen creeping through her house when she'd passed through the last flaming door into the depths of her memory. . . . _He'd_ stalked her sister, _he'd_ taken the lamp, _he'd_ set and escaped the blaze. And now. . .he'd told her to get rid of her friends, forget her childish dreams, to let Wonderland change even as she shrieked that the change was hurting her. . . . "The destruction of Wonderland – is the destruction of me?" she whispered, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

The Queen nodded. "Indeed! And vice-versa! He wants you _gone_ , Alice – and you're _helping_ him!"

For a moment, it felt like the shame might sent her straight off the catwalk. Then Alice pushed it back, stiffening her spine and gritting her teeth. No – she would not break. Would not submit under this onslaught of guilt. The Queen might have a point – a terrible, unassailable point – but that was no reason to collapse like a house of cards. "I set the Train in motion – I can derail it," she declared with all the confidence she could muster. She had to believe that – had to believe she could still fix things. Why bring her here otherwise? "This is good for me. I'm not insa–" Her throat choked on the word, and she couldn't blame it. Not when she was standing in a throne room whose very walls were organs and tissue, which she'd reached by sliding down an overlong tongue. "I didn't kill my family," she tried instead, putting every ounce of conviction she could behind it. _Remember what Victor said, don't let this bitch win now–_ "I _am_ fine. I'm innocent – I mean, n-not guilty–"

And then, suddenly, she was being mummified in wet, squelching pink. She slapped her hands over her face as terror surged through her. "What's happening? What are you doing?!"

"The Train must be stopped – but there's more to do," the Queen replied, lifting her off her feet. Alice tried to summon her weapons, but just like before, they wouldn't come. Not that she was able to move her arms to use them anyway. "Your view conceals a tragedy. The truth you claim to seek eludes you because you won't _look_ at what's around you!"

And before Alice could react, before she could say a single word, she was being dragged forward, into a gaping maw of needle-sharp teeth – and then there was a squeezing, rough pain, and she could barely see –

"There is no method in this madness!" the Queen's voice echoed around her, and then – was that – _Dr. Wilson_? Speaking about how "madness is often a treatable disease – though perhaps not in this case. . . ." And those walls – oh no, no, _no_ – "Authority must be obeyed – or it must be overthrown!"

Witless, back in her nurse's uniform, telling someone "cruel to be kind, that's my technique," and Alice couldn't obey or overthrow her because she was trapped, confined like an animal in smothering white canvas – then Bumby was there, swinging his key. . . . "The worst is over – and over – and over. Forget it, Alice, _forget it_!" Her mind screamed as she remembered his former threat: _"If you're going to become a danger to yourself and others, maybe it would be be_ _st_ _for you to be recommitted. . . ."_

Blackness rolled in to claim her, but before it did, she saw the Queen loom over her one last time, eyes mysteriously sad. "And this time – you might not be the only one to pay the price for failure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to "Nanny's friend Prickett" is actually a reference to the real Liddell girls' nanny. It's theorized in Martin Gardner's "Annotated Alice" she might have been on Carroll's mind when he designed the character of the Red Queen, whom he described as the essence of all governesses.


	19. The Most Disturbing Discovery

October 23rd, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

12:52 P.M.

_Thud! Thump-thump-thump –_ "Ugh, what miserable weather. . .Victor? Come here, please."

"Just a moment, Dr. Bumby!" Victor set the stack of lunch dishes carefully into the sink, then headed back up to the front foyer. Bumby was standing just inside the door, shaking the last of the day's rain off his shoes and umbrella. Next to him, two heavyset men all in white were doing much the same. Victor eyed them, frowning. They seemed familiar somehow. . . . "Yes?"

"Allow me to introduce you to our newest helpers," Dr. Bumby said, gesturing to the pair at his side. "David and Columbus Monroe – two of Rutledge's finest orderlies. Superintendent Monroe has graciously allowed us to borrow them for a while in our search for Alice."

"Lum will do for me," the shorter of the men said, looking Victor up and down before nudging the larger with his elbow. "Scrawnier than Alice in her sickbed, eh, David? We need to wrench your mouth open to feed you too?"

If he'd been Alice, Victor might have been able to come up with a witty and cutting reply. As he wasn't, all he could do was stare. The Monroe brothers were clearly a pair of twins – though judging by the rather striking difference in their heights, fraternal ones rather than identical. David was the proverbial brick privy – a hulking brute with no neck to speak of and a shirt that only just fastened over his massive girth. Lum, by contrast, was shaped more like a pear, with narrow shoulders and stumpy legs with which to waddle around on. Both had large, fleshy faces with down-turned mouths and cruel, deep-set eyes – David's a very pale blue, Lum's a deep brown – and both smelled as if they'd forgotten what a bath was. Or laundry, given the stains splashed all over their uniforms. Neither looked like an example of "Rutledge's finest" – but even if they'd pulled out dozens of ribbons and framed certificates to prove the fact, Victor still wouldn't have trusted them one bit. "Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. . . ."

Bumby blinked as he took off his hat. "Beg pardon?"

"Dr. Bumby, could I speak with you a moment?" Victor said, crossing the room in a couple of quick strides and taking the man's arm. "Privately?"

"Er – I suppose. . . ." The puzzled psychiatrist allowed Victor to pull him into the hall. "What was that you said before?"

"How could you bring _those_ two back here?!" Victor snapped, ignoring the question. "On a search for Alice, no less?"

"They're highly-trained orderlies," Dr. Bumby replied, as if speaking to a child.

"They're also the superintendent's nephews, aren't they?" Victor shot back. "Alice told me about them – and what they did to her in bedlam! She _loathes_ them, and I'm quite certain the feeling is mutual! And don't give me that she exaggerates in this instance, Doctor," he added, jabbing a finger into Bumby's chest. "They fit her description almost exactly!"

"Oh. . .yes, fine, I understand there were a few – 'incidents' between them during her stay in Rutledge," Dr. Bumby sighed, rolling his eyes. "But that was over a year ago. Alice may cling to her past, but these two are willing to let bygones be bygones, I'm sure."

"Are you really?" Victor rubbed his face. "Those two are the ones who conspired with Nurse Cratchet to – to s-shove a d-drill into her brain!"

"Trepanning has been shown to ease certain mental illnesses–"

"How, by turning the patient into a vegetable?!"

"How many times must I remind you that you're not a trained psychiatrist?" Dr. Bumby grumbled.

"None of the people involved in that were either."

Victor was quite proud of himself for rendering Bumby speechless for a moment. "They were just trying to help," the doctor finally snapped, shaking his head. "Besides, no lasting damage was done to Alice."

"Besides the nightmares."

"Alice is prone to those anyway, you know that." Victor huffed and looked away, wishing he didn't have to concede the point. "Look, those two are what Superintendent Monroe gave me, so they're what we have to work with. You may as well _try_ to make a good first impression. I know that's exceedingly hard for you, but put in the effort for once!"

". . .You sounded _just_ like my mother just then."

"Well, in this case she had the right idea! Come on!" Dr. Bumby yanked him back into the foyer, where Dee and Dum – _David and Lum,_ Victor reminded himself – were poking around the bookshelves and dollhouse. "My apologies, Master Van Dort had some concerns about one of the children," Bumby said, putting on his "charming" voice. "What do you think of our humble abode?"

"You've got a leak in that corner," Lum noted, watching water dribble down the wallpaper. "We don't have to sleep here, do we? Hard enough when we have to stay overnight at the asylum. Somebody's always screaming their head off."

"That's usually not a problem here, but you're welcome to return to your own homes at night, so long as you're back in time for breakfast," Dr. Bumby replied. "Besides, you won't be spending much time in the Home itself. I need you out and about looking for our wayward patient."

"Yeah. . .'bout that," David asked, one hand reaching up to stroke a faint gray line crossing his cheek. "Does Alice _have_ to come back in one piece?"

Dr. Bumby just was not having a good day, Victor spitefully noted as the psychiatrist stared. " _Yes_ ," the doctor snapped at last. "I expect her to be returned to my care – or Rutledge's – unharmed if at all possible."

"Oh. Right." David exchanged a mean little look with his brother, and Victor knew the twins were already contemplating just how far to stretch that "possible." A sausagey finger indicated Victor. "What about him then?"

"I do my own searching when I'm not busy with the chores," Victor replied, hiding a shudder at the thought of being down an alley – or hell, even on a main street – with those two. "Working with Constable Hightopp of Bow Street. That'll help us cover more ground."

"Well, if we can't find her, maybe we can just stick you in a dress and make you grow your hair a bit longer," Lum said with a smirk. "You look enough like a girl. Lie stiff in your bed with the occasional scream and that'll do for me."

"Oddly enough, he _does_ insist on keeping her rabbit close," Dr. Bumby said, sneering at Victor. "But I'd prefer to have the genuine article." He jerked his head toward the doorway behind him. "Let me introduce you to the children, then we can discuss just what exactly I expect of you."

"Fine." The pair tottered after Bumby, pausing once they were on either side of Victor. "Got her rabbit, eh?" Lum said, deep malice in his tone. "Wonder if it still stinks of porridge."

With that, they continued on, David bumping Victor as he went and nearly sending the young man to the floor. Victor steadied himself against a nearby chair, then – once the twins were safely round the corner – dashed into his room. Alice's rabbit was sitting on his bed, mostly hidden by his pillow so the children wouldn't be tempted to nick it. That wouldn't do for the Monroes, however – especially since Victor was quite certain their plans for it didn't include attendance at an imaginary tea party. He seized the toy and thrust it into the depths of his linen press, covering it with a few handkerchiefs and a shirt. _Hopefully that'll do for now. . .I'll have to move it regularly, just to be safe. And start locking my door when I'm out of the house._ He groaned and pressed his hand over his eyes. _For God's sake, why would Superintendent Monroe – oh, why wouldn't he? He probably has no love lost for Alice either after the spoon incident. But I really didn't expect anything like this when Bumby said he'd be getting help from Rutledge. When will I learn that the universe always throws the worst possible thing it can at me?_

He brushed his hair back from his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose. _The doctor's right in one regard, though – this is what I've got, so this is what I have to work with. I'll just have to redouble my own efforts to find her. And warn Harry who Bumby has on the hunt now. I'm sure he'll be willing to throw an obstacle or two in their way. And if they do find her first, hopefully Alice will be able to escape!_ He bit the inside of his cheek. _Oh dear, is this what I've been reduced to – hoping Alice_ stays _on the streets in a daze because it's likely better than being in the custody of those two? This place. . . ._

 _Well, let's not dwell on that. I have business to attend to._ He crossed to his nightstand and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. _First things first – get this letter out to Dr. Wilson. If anyone can have that pair sent back to the pit from whence they came, it's him. After that, it's off to Bow Street, and then – I guess I'll just have to play it by ear._ With the sound of the rain pattering against his window surrounding him, Victor sat down and began to write.

* * *

October 26th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:48 P.M.

"You're looking for Alice Liddell? Where were you two days ago when she invaded my shop and stole a slice of my best white cake with strawberries?"

"Over by 'The Thistle and Straw,'" Victor grumbled, leaning heavily on the counter top. "Believe me, I would have much rather been here."

Something about the pure frustration in his tone must have touched the baker – the man's shoulders relaxed, and his face lost some of its red passion. "Well, I suppose it's not your fault you can't keep tabs on her – she'd strain the patience of any man," he said, scratching under his white cap. Then, with a significant frown, he added, "But I _would_ like to be compensated for my work."

Victor's wallet slid smoothly out of his pocket. "How much does the average slice here cost?"

"Sixpence – I put my blood, sweat, and tears into every one," the baker said with pride.

Two shillings clattered against the counter. "I'll take a slice of chocolate, if you have it, and the rest is for your trouble."

"My generous sir!" The money disappeared into the man's apron pocket, and moments later a surprisingly clean plate bearing a slice of chocolate cake with a fork stuck in the top appeared in front of Victor. "Milk?" the man offered, holding up a bottle.

"No thank you, this will do." Victor pulled out the fork and started at the very tip of the slice. The flavor of fresh cocoa, sugar, and frosting melting on his tongue managed to lift his gloomy mood, but not by much. Yet another day of walking and talking and not getting much out of either. No matter where he went, Alice was either one step ahead or had never been there at all. It was like his life was nothing more than an elaborate flip-book – the illusion of movement was there, but there wasn't any actual progress being made.

 _All right, maybe that's a bit harsh_ , he allowed as he ate. It wasn't like he was getting no news at all about Alice's activities. Mostly it was the usual snippets of "yeah, spotted her going round that corner; no, didn't bother to see where she went," but yesterday he'd encountered a banker near Threadneedle who'd reported seeing her having a conversation with the statue of Thomas Gresham at the Royal Exchange: _"Quite a serious one too, judging by the look on her face. I didn't dare get closer for fear she'd take out her ill temper on me."_ And not an hour ago, the cabdriver he'd hired had mentioned passing her while on a job: _"Running as if she feared her shadow was about to come up and eat her! Never seen a girl that fast before."_ And for once Victor's question about if he remembered the street had borne fruit, leading him to this bakery –

 _And delicious disappointment,_ Victor thought, tearing off a slightly bigger bite. _I was hoping he'd seen her at most yesterday afternoon. . .I might have had a chance of catching up then. Oh well. . .maybe Harry's having better luck. You'd think between his badge and my wallet we could come up with some solid leads. Then again, this_ is _the bobby who thought it perfectly acceptable to release Alice back into the world after bringing her in only half-aware. Perhaps he's not really putting in his best work!_ He rubbed his eye and sighed. _Oh, be honest, Victor – you're angrier with yourself for not skipping tea and visiting the station earlier. Or for not leaving that cat to its own devices and taking your chances following her to Radcliffe's. Or for simply not deciding to forget that session back in September and walk with her to the chemist – maybe if I'd been there, she'd have actually made it._ He sucked bitterly on his fork. _Why is my world built of old regrets, vanishing loved ones, and near misses? Would it be so hard to have something go right for a change?_

"I need to–"

"Wipe your bottom?"

"Will you let me–"

"Go to the pub?"

"Oh, I only wish. . . ."

 _Yes, kick a man while he's down, why don't you._ Victor focused his attention on his cake. Maybe by some miracle they wouldn't recognize him from behind –

"Well, if it isn't the narcoleptic!"

Victor paused mid-chew. That – hadn't been expected. Had Bumby updated his diagnosis?

"I told you that wasn't the word!" Lum groaned. "Thick as a brick. . .what are you doing here, Van Dort?"

"I _was_ looking for Alice," Victor said, as the baker eyed his latest customers warily. "When it turned out I was two days late, I decided to have a snack." He glanced over at the brother more able to string two words together. "I don't suppose you've had any luck."

"No, she's–"

"Mad as a loon!" David cut in with a snigger.

"Will you _stop_ that?! It ain't as funny as you think!" Lum snapped, smacking his twin on the arm. "Anyway, she ain't in any of the haunts we've checked."

"I'm not surprised. She moves around so quickly it's almost impossible to catch up." _And she can probably smell_ you _coming a mile away, loony or not._

"She wasn't like that in the asylum," David noted. "Just stared at the ceiling for hours on end. Din't move a muscle." His fingers found the line cutting across his cheek. "'Les you touch her rabbit."

"Yes, she told me that story," Victor said shortly. "Including the bit where you nearly ruined it for life."

"It's her own fault for not taking her food," was Lum's considered opinion. "If she hadn't been so tight and stiff all the time, things might have been a lot better for her!"

"I don't think a catatonic has that much choice in the matter."

Lum glared. "You think you're better than us, don't you? Just 'cause your pop's got money." A pudgy finger drove itself into Victor's side. "I ain't taking that from a man who thought a corpse was fine marrying material!"

"I assure you, I don't think myself above you because my father happens to be rich," Victor said, holding up a hand. _I think it because you're a pair of dull-witted bullies._ "Look, all I want is a chance to eat my cake in peace before I go back on the hunt or return to Houndsditch."

"I think you'd do better with a turn in the asylum," Lum said cruelly. "Electricity would solve all your ills! A good shock and you'd be ticking on like clockwork again!"

"Or I'd be dead," Victor observed pithily, shoving another forkful of cake into his mouth.

"Dr. Bumby says you want to be dead," David put in. "I could help! I smothered old Brann when he said he didn't want to stare at the walls anymore!"

The fork bounced off the counter onto the floor. "You _what_?!"

"He's joking," Lum said hastily, elbowing his brother. "Poor fellow just stopped breathing one day, never did find out the reason why. . . ."

"Uncle didn't like him," David said, barely noticing his twin's blow. "Said it was a good thing he died."

"Uncle also told you to keep your stupid yap shut," Lum hissed.

 _Dear God – file that under 'things to tell Harry,'_ Victor thought, retrieving his fork with a shiver. _How can they let such things_ happen _at asylums?_ _Why do people forget so easily the mentally ill are still_ human _?_ "Your uncle doesn't seem to like Alice much either," he said, turning the subject slightly.

"Nobody does, 'cept you, and you're mad too," David replied with another little snigger.

"Yeah," Lum agreed, grinning. "Probably hoping Alice'll die so you can–"

" _So I can what?_ "

Lum started backward as Victor suddenly shot up, nose to nose with the shorter twin, fork clutched in his hand like a sword. "Alice isn't the only one who knows how to fight with cutlery!" he snarled, backing the orderly up into his brother's bulk. The pair whitened as he thrust the tines into their faces. "You imply such a thing about me again, and I swear to God–"

"If you're going to fight, take it outside!"

Victor looked over his shoulder at the baker, who was pointing at the door with a scowl. "This isn't the Mangled Mermaid, you know!"

"No, you don't have a player piano," Victor said, the reminder of the start of his feud with Splatter cooling him down a little. _Easy now on the temper, Van Dort. It's not_ _worth it to have yet more people ready to smash your skull._ "I don't actually want a fight, sir, I promise." He turned and headed back to the counter. "Just let me take the rest of my cake and I'll be out of your–"

_Thunk – SPLAT!_

Victor gasped as the breath was forced out of him by his chest's sudden introduction to the counter top. Then, slowly, he stood up straight again to find the remnants of his treat smudged all over his jacket lapels. Behind him, he heard both Lum and David laugh. "That's what uppity swells get 'round here!" Lum declared.

"Should have let me do it, Lum!" David said, clapping his hands together. "I could have _really_ made it hurt!"

For five seconds, Victor wrestled with the urge to lunge at whichever was nearest and stick his fork in an unfortunate part of their anatomy. Fortunately, common sense won out and propelled his legs across the shop and out the door before anger could snap its leash. _Murder's illegal murder's illegal murder's illegal,_ he reminded himself as he stormed down the street, puffing like a steam engine. _Though considering they've already killed one man themselves, perhaps it would simply be called 'justice' to butcher them like the hogs they are!_ _God, how did that family end up in charge of an asylum? They're not qualified to look after a goldfish!_

"Judging by your clothes, I'd say you tried to haggle with dear Arthur about the price of his cakes."

Victor's head swung around to see a man leaning against a door lintel to his left, watching him with amusement. "I tell him, thruppence is the most anyone is going to pay. . . ."

"I gave him two shillings, not that it's any of your business," Victor snapped.

"Blimey – that should have bought you half the shop!" The man looked him up and down. "'Course, you look like a swell, I guess you – hey, are you that Van Dort fellow?"

Victor tensed for a sprint. ". . .who is asking, and why?"

"Name's John Harbor, and I heard a rumor you knocked out some of Jack Splatter's teeth," the man said, standing up straight. "Bully for you! Bastard stayed with me a fortnight and never paid his rent."

. . .Was this what being complimented felt like? He'd almost forgotten after so long in Whitechapel and out of Alice's company. "I – I don't think I got any of his teeth. . .but I did punch him into a packing crate," Victor said with a little smile, relaxing. "I'm sorry, I'm used to being famous for – d-different reasons."

"Yeah, you're that Liddell girl's bloke, aren't you? Word on the streets is that she's back in Rutledge."

"Not yet, but she's coming dangerously close," Victor murmured, running his fingers through his hair. "And I can't let that happen. . .have you seen her?"

"Not hide nor hair – sorry," Harbor replied with a shrug. "Been busy with my own business."

"Fair enough." Victor sighed and pulled out his handkerchief, attempting to wipe the frosting off his coat. "What _is_ your business, if you don't mind me asking?"

"This here building," Harbor said proudly, patting the door. "I'm in the landlord game. There's always someone looking for a room somewhere in this city. And I was lucky enough to have my father buy a bunch, then die and leave them all to me."

"Really." Victor looked up at the house. It was your standard city brownstone, though someone had made an attempt at adding color with a couple of rough-hewn flower boxes on the lower windows. "How many rooms do you have?"

"Six – what, are _you_ interested in renting?" Harbor laughed.

 _". . .something to keep a roof over your head should be fine. . . ."_ "I might be," Victor said slowly, folding up his soiled hanky. "I – I don't know if I can move in right away, but. . .just having the option would be nice."

Harbor blinked – then the capitalist in him took over. "People moving in and out all the time. It ain't much – just your bed, place to sit, table downstairs for breakfast. . .but I do have a privy in the back! With a nightsoil man in and out like clockwork. Ain't more than a couple of bob a week. Can't promise you cake with it, though."

Victor laughed. "Yes, fine, I overpaid. . .but to be fair, Alice stole a piece earlier in the week. I find giving a little extra makes people less inclined to be sour about such things." He rubbed the back of his head. "Two shillings a week. . .my savings would probably cover that for a good month. But. . .oh, I don't know. . .let me think about it."

"Think all you want – I'll have someone in there no matter what," Harbor said, smirking. Then suddenly, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "But if you're thinking about moving in _with_ someone – I ain't the sort to blab."

That was honestly the most heartening thing Victor had heard all day. "Thank you," he said. "Hopefully I'll see you around soon."

"Good luck out there, Van Dort. And if you see Splatter, give him one over the ear for me, will ya?"

Victor snorted. "I'll do my best." He waved and continued on the street, a new bounce in his step. This day couldn't be classified as "good" by any means, but that meeting with Harbor was certainly a bright spot. _Who knew my reputation on these streets could be turned to my advantage? A place of my own. . .just a bed and a table, but that's pretty much all I have at Houndsditch. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just give him the money now and spend the night getting used to a new mattress. . .but I'll be damned if I leave Alice to the tender mercies of the Tweedles,_ he thought, face darkening. _They'll touch her again over my dead body. Speaking of which, it's probably wise for me to pay Harry a visit. Who knows what he might have on Rutledge's superintendent. . . ._ Purpose reaffirmed, he turned his feet toward Bow Street.

* * *

October 28th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:17 P.M.

_God, I could use a good cup of tea. . .I'm not going to get one, but I could use one._

Victor slumped in the door, wearily wiping the ever-present smog from his eyes. Today had been a particularly rough day. The morning had been completely fruitless – not only had he been forced to spend an hour hiding in a coffee shop after nearly running into Splatter again, not a single person he'd asked had seen Alice. Whereabouts completely unknown. Then, after a stop for a rather unappetizing lunch (he was quite sure chip buttys were not supposed to be wet), he'd visited Bow Street only to be swept up by Harry and Fred rushing out the door: _"Come on, Victor! Somebody just told us they saw Alice down on Newbury Street!"_ Victor had instantly taken the lead, commandeering the nearest cab and promising the driver double fare to get them there with all possible speed. The excitement in the air had been palpable as they bounced their way down the cobbles, and Victor had leapt out of the carriage ready to sweep Alice into his arms and never let her go –

And had instead met Christine, who had roughly the same hair as Alice (though a little darker) and was of a height with her, but had worn brown eyes and was missing three front teeth. And who helped run an opium den – they'd caught her just as she was coming into work. Victor had left the policemen to deal with the addicts and enablers, slouching home under the crushing weight of disappointment. Probably it was a good thing to get Christine and her ilk off the streets, but oh, how much would he have preferred for his missing lady to have been at the end of the trail instead. _If only she'd managed to stumble in there. . .and now I'm_ hoping _for her to blunder into houses of sin and ill repute just so we have a better chance of finding her. This is what my life has become._ He massaged his face as he headed into the hall, glancing at her door. _Oh Alice. . .where are you? Are you safe? Will I find you in –_

 _Bump._ "Bloody hell. . . ."

Someone was in his room.

Victor froze mid-step, eyes now fixed on his own door. He distinctly remembered locking it before he went out, as had become his habit now that the Monroe brothers were over at all hours. Yet here it was, sitting ajar, with a faint light streaming out into the hall. And he thought he could hear someone muttering too. . .creeping his way across the old floorboards, he put his eye to the crack. Lum was inside, peering under the bed on his hands and knees. "Where are you, you little bastard. . . ."

It didn't take a genius to figure out what Lum was looking for. Victor slammed the door open and strode in like a thunderstorm. "What are you doing in my room?!"

Lum jumped, then yelped as his head hit the bed frame with a crack. "Van Dort! Aren't you supposed to be–"

"I'm back for tea!" Victor cut him off, face red. "What possible reason could you have for skulking about in here?"

"Uh – pest problem!" Lum said, wriggling out from under the bed and clapping dust from his hands. "Dr. Bumby told us he saw a rat 'round here the other day. You don't want to get rat-bite fever, do you?"

"No, but you know I'm in charge of cleaning now that Alice is – indisposed," Victor replied, folding his arms. "I've yet to see anything more than the occasional unhappy cockroach anywhere in the house. You can tell the doctor his fears are happily unfounded."

"Right, right, I'll do that." Lum hurried to the door, rubbing the back of his head. "Ungrateful son of a bitch. . . ."

"Tuh – learn some better insults."

Lum gave him a look, then left, still grumbling. Victor waited for him to get out of sight, then yanked his door closed and dashed to his nightstand. _He didn't find it he didn't find it he wouldn't have been carrying on like he did if he had it's still there it's still there –_

And it was, much to his relief. Tucked against the back of the drawer, hidden behind a pile of inkpots and quills, Alice's rabbit still lay safe. Victor pulled it out and gave it a hug. "Oh thank God. . .I dread to think what would have happened to you if I hadn't come back when I did."

He petted the toy's ears to calm himself, then frowned back at the door. _Now, how did he even get in? The locks in this house aren't the best, but so far they've always held. Did he have his brother break it for him? No, if that were the case, the entire door would have been lying on the floor, ripped clean off the hinges._ He stepped closer and squinted hard at both knob and keyhole. Both seemed undisturbed. _I suppose he could have picked it. . .though really, he doesn't strike me as that clever –_

A sudden memory popped into his head – his mother, delightedly showing off to Father and him a key she'd just had made that could open any door in the house. She'd claimed that it was so she could keep an eye on the maids, make sure they weren't slacking off in their little quarters, but Victor had always suspected it was so she could also get into his room anytime she wished. That was how he'd learned all his various tricks when it came to hiding things (namely his growing collection of dreadfuls). Why shouldn't Bumby also have a master key for his home? And while it wouldn't be out of character for Lum to knick it in his and his brother's quest to gain revenge on the rabbit, Victor felt certain Bumby had passed along the key freely. _He hates this toy almost as much as they do. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he had them do his dirty work in disposing of it._

He dropped onto his bed with a heavy sigh, still cradling the rabbit against his chest. These past – five days? Was that really it? It felt like so much longer – were easily becoming the most trying of his life. Not even running into a burning building could compare with dealing with David and Lum Monroe. Alice's stories, rather than exaggerations, felt almost like _understatements_ at times. The pair were rude, crude, and while they had yet to actually commit any true physical violence against him or anyone else (that he knew about), remembering what David had let slip the day before last about poor Mr. Brann was enough to make Victor fear for himself, the children, and _especially_ Alice. _And Harry doesn't think we can do anything about it, not without proof. . .which their uncle has probably already seen disposed of. God, I hate this place. . . ._

Approaching footsteps alerted Victor that he was about to receive another unwelcome visitor. Hastily he stuffed the rabbit into the gap between his mattress and the head of the bed, covering it with his pillow. Moments later, after a perfunctory knock, Dr. Bumby stepped inside. "I understand you objected to Lum searching your room for pests?"

"He could have at least told me about your fears before I left, sir," Victor replied, forcing politeness. "As it is, I've never seen a rat around here. I don't think you need to worry."

"Oh, but I do," Dr. Bumby replied, glasses glittering in the light from Victor's lamp. "Rodents are a severe problem in the East End, I'm sorry to say. You never know when one might find your room a suitable nest."

"I clean regularly, Dr. Bumby, you know that," Victor replied, folding his hands in his lap to keep them from twitching. "Any rodents I might have encountered I would have chased out of the house."

One eyebrow arched. "Really."

"Of course. I don't want the children getting sick. All fuzzy creatures bigger than a matchbox would be sent far, far away, where you would never see them again."

Dr. Bumby tilted his head, eyes boring into Victor. Victor returned the look as blandly as possible, sitting still as a statue. "I see," the psychiatrist said finally. "I'll let Lum and David know the good news. Though of course I hope you understand we'll still do the occasional quick check, just to be certain. Alice's room too – if she does come back into my care, we'll want it to be clean and safe for her, won't we?"

"Of course, sir," Victor nodded. "I understand completely."

"Good. Glad we've got that cleared up." Dr. Bumby turned. "I've already had my tea, but the kettle's still on the stove if you want to make yourself a cup."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Bumby nodded, then exited, closing the door again behind him. Victor mentally counted to five, then collapsed against the pillow, letting out his breath in a whoosh. "Oh. . .Mother, if only you'd seen that! I think you'd be quite proud of me."

He was certainly proud of himself – what a bluff! It seemed that Bumby was at least seventy-five percent sure that he'd taken the rabbit and hidden it somewhere outside the Home. _I wonder if that means he'll be sending his minions on a series of wild goose chases. . .whatever gets them out of the house and away from me more._ Victor bit his lip. _But that still leaves the threat of random probing when I'm out. And I'm positive he'll make sure they're a lot more thorough from now on_ _._ _No more relying on the nightstand or the linen press._ _And I can't sneak it into Alice's room either – not that I would. I was certain from the start that would be the first place they'd look for it._ He reached into the gap and carefully extracted the bunny, staring into its single button. _I suppose I could give it to Harry – but what if someone stole it from the station? That would be irony at its finest. . .No, I have to keep this somewhere close. I'll worry too much otherwise. But where?_

* * *

 

October 29th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:48 P.M.

"In you go!"

The one-eyed bunny peered into the wire-strewn darkness below, then turned toward Victor, tilting its head in a questioning manner. "Beg pardon?" The bunny pointed at the interior of the piano, waggling its ears with a twitch of his fingers. "Oh, don't worry. It's perfectly safe in there. And think of the wonderful surprise you'll be for Alice!"

This satisfied the toy in Victor's imagination. Victor chuckled as he carefully inserted it into the space between the hammer for middle C and the corresponding string. _Well, I'm having full conversations with inanimate objects now,_ he thought. _I guess I've officially joined the ranks of the mad. Better chatting with stuffed animals than trying to talk to anyone else around here, though. And it's much nicer to think of this as setting up a present for Alice rather than a desperate attempt to keep her toy away from Bumby, Dee, and Dum._ He frowned as he extracted his arm and closed the top of the instrument. _I just hope it's good enough._ _I've probably convinced Bumby at this point I would never do anything to ruin the piano's tuning, so I've got that in my favor._ _But if I don't find Alice soon. . . ._ He plonked himself on the stool. _Why does life have to be so complicated?_

He ran his fingers over the keyboard, a smile touching his lips. Even if the true reason was a sneaky one, this really would be a lovely surprise for Alice. Why, he could picture the scene now – Alice dragging herself through the front doors, stomach rumbling and eyes dark, an absolute grouchy mess. Him hurrying to her side, making sure she was all right, fetching her a few digestives. . .then sitting her nearby and _– "Perhaps a bit of music would help your mood?"_

_"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Alice mumbled, nibbling on her biscuit. "Just make sure it's something sunny, all right? I'm in no mood for one your more depressing compositions."_

_"Of course, of course." Victor sat himself before the instrument, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling. He flexed his fingers, placed them on the keys, and then –_

_No sound at all from middle C, and the notes around it were either similarly muffled or a discordant clatter. Victor forced himself to stare at the keys in mock-puzzlement. "Now what on earth. . . ."_

_"Oh, probably one of the children has thrust something in there as a prank," Alice said, rolling her eyes. "Want me to get it?"_

_"No, no, you stay there," Victor said, holding up a hand as he stood. "I'm closer." Pressing his lips tightly together to hold in his grin, he reached inside and felt around. "Now where – aha! I think_ this _is the culprit!" He grabbed the toy and pulled. "Does this look familiar, Alice?"_

_The rest of the biscuit hit the floor. Alice stared at the rabbit, so wide-eyed Victor was half-sure they were about to pop clean out of her head. "What – you – Mr. Bunny?" she whispered, voice so high it was almost a squeak._

_Now Victor let his smile shine through. "Mr. Radcliffe, as it turns out, can indeed be bought."_

_The laugh that escaped Alice's mouth was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. She sprang to her feet, snatching the rabbit from his grasp and squeezing it against her middle. "Oh God. . .I never thought I'd see this again. . .Victor, thank you, thank you. . . ."_

_"Anything for you," Victor told her, stepping closer._

_Alice beamed – oh, that smile, he could draw it a hundred times over and still not get enough – and flung her arms around him in a tight embrace. "I am so glad I met you. . . ."_

_"Me too," Victor whispered, pulling her close._

_Their eyes locked just then, sparkling green and warm brown. Victor felt his heart start thrumming in his chest._ _She was just so beautiful, inside and out. . .the rest of the world faded away, leaving them floating in their own private universe. . .her free hand found its way to the back of his head, guiding it down as she stretched up on tiptoe. . .their breaths mingled, ghosting over each other's lips. . .and then_ –

_All right, Van Dort, that's enough,_ Victor scolded himself, yanking himself out of the daydream as his cheeks burned with mingled embarrassment and desire. _It would probably be a good idea to tell her you love her_ before _attempting that. And you can't confess to such a powerful emotion until she's gotten her head on straight. Remember what you told Victoria about not wanting to send her back to Rutledge?_ He shivered. _Not to mention there's still no guarantee she'll return your feelings. Maybe Victoria's right and she won't want to end the friendship over it, but. . . ._ He swallowed, hands compulsively folding and unfolding in his lap. _I've been dragged to the afterlife by a corpse bride, dueled an enraged swordsman armed with a fork, punched the most dangerous pimp in the East End, butted heads with its most prominent psychiatrist, and threatened a pair of orderlies who could easily snap me in two. And yet it's the idea that Alice could say she never wants to see me again that terrifies me the most. This_ must _be love._

"Hey!"

Victor started, then turned to see Reggie in the doorway. The child was sporting a wicked smirk, eyes lit up with dark glee. "What is it?" he asked, immediately on edge.

"Dr. Bumby just got himself a letter, and he wants to see you right away," Reggie said with an important nod.

"A – oh, no, the postman didn't give _him_ my reply from Dr. Wilson?" He'd been waiting on that all week! If Bumby found out about his attempts to get Wilson's help right under his nose. . .

"Nope – this is from your parents," Reggie told him, smirk growing wider. "Somebody's gonna have to go see the High Street chemist!"

Oh _, that –_ he'd forgotten all about it again in the excitement of losing Alice once more. Suddenly, Victor found himself wishing it had been Dr. Wilson's letter. At least then he would have had the comfort of knowing it was a friendly missive. _So, Mother's finally gotten Father back on her side, has she?_ "Dr. Bumby can't force me to take any pills," he said, folding his arms.

"Oh yes he can, now that he's got Dumb and Dumber," Reggie pointed out. "That big one could just sit on you while the other got your mouth open."

"If David Monroe sat on me, I'd be in the Land of the Dead having a pint, not swallowing some obscure medication whose name I can't pronounce." Reggie tilted his head and nodded, giving him the point. "Besides, I've been doing a bit of reading – I think I have to be _officially_ declared mentally incompetent before he can move on to pills and elixirs."

"Do you?" Reggie asked, looking honestly curious. "Figured if you lived here, everybody just _knew_ you were loony."

"Perhaps I won't be living here much longer, then," Victor snapped, remembering Harbor and his rooms. He hated to do it, especially with Alice still on the loose, but this was an emergency. He'd rather swallow his pride than those pills.

"What, are you gonna move in with Alice's nanny?"

"N–" Victor blinked. Wait – Nanny! Why hadn't he thought of her before? The woman probably had no room to spare, what with picking up the pieces of her life – but she _would_ need someone to help her get the Mermaid back up to snuff! He was no construction worker, but doing odd jobs, learning how to pull pints, maybe securing another piano – that was well within his talents. He didn't particularly _like_ the idea of working near prostitutes and drunken louts, but he couldn't afford to be picky. And he was almost certain she would take him on – she'd seemed to like him well enough the last time they'd spoken. And saving her old charge from a burning building _had_ to have earned him plenty of goodwill. "I _should_ talk to her," he whispered, then turned back to Reggie. "But let's take care of Dr. Bumby first. He wants to see me?"

"Yeah, in his office," Reggie said, jerking his head around.

"All right then." Victor picked up as much as he could of a deck of cards off the floor. "Here – play a round of Patience or Happy Families or something." He absently patted Reggie on the head, then strode away, face set in a determined frown. "I'll show him that he can't always get what he wants."

His march upstairs was blessedly quiet – most of the remaining children (they'd lost a couple more to "good homes" during Alice's absence) were either messing about in their rooms or playing hopscotch and marbles in the courtyard outside. A couple of the boys glanced his way when he went by their door, but otherwise didn't pay him any mind. _Good – I'm not in the mood to match wits with people less than half my age._ _Bad enough I have to do so with someone twice it._ Reaching the office, he rapped hard on the door. "Dr. Bumby? I–"

_Creeaaaak. . . ._

Victor stepped back, startled, as the door fell open under his fist. Well, that was odd. Usually the psychiatrist kept his office securely shut against intrusion. _Of course, I am expected. . . ._ Curious, he poked his head through the crack. Fainting couch, tattered armchair, half-empty bookshelves, wormwood-chewed desk, peeling wallpaper, and yellowed globe – but no doctor. _Or am I?_ He stepped inside, looking left and right with a frown. _This doesn't make sense. Why call for me and then vanish? Did one of the children get into trouble and I not see? Or was he just struck with a sudden urge for the loo?_ He shrugged and wandered toward the desk. _Well, I might as well wait here until he comes back. Gives me a chance to rehearse just what it is I'd like to say to him. Unless he returns with Dee and Dum in tow, in which case I'll throw the inkwell at his head and then make my escape out the window._

He idly scanned the contents of the weathered wood before him, searching out some way to amuse himself. There was a book open in front of Bumby's usual chair, with a pen lying beside it. Victor squinted at the upside-down words. It didn't look like a psychiatry manual. A diary, perhaps? Or maybe it was Bumby's own personal manual, written over years of treating his various patients. Victor fiddled with his tie, fighting the desire to take a closer look. It was wrong to snoop, he knew that, but he couldn't help but wonder if –

Wait. Was that his name?

Curiosity getting the better of him, Victor crossed around to the other side of the desk. It did indeed look like a diary now – apparently Dr. Bumby had been working on an entry before disappearing. Victor found the beginning and began to read quickly, hoping to keep the voice lecturing him for ill manners from getting too loud:

_"A most annoying day so far. Victor, his two policemen friends, and those idiotic orderlies all continue to report total failure in finding Alice. It is utterly amazing how a woman who is, by all accounts, completely lost within her own mind can evade capture so well. Sometimes one really has to wonder if she's faking her worst episodes as an excuse to do what she likes without fear of reprisal. Almost an entire year of work wasted, tossed into the bin by a psyche that refuses to be molded and tamed. Well, if she would prefer to go completely mad once more, that's fine by me. I would have preferred the alternative, but perhaps it's better for us all if she returns to Rutledge a raving lunatic. It would certainly stop me from worrying about my reputation."_

_Yes, because that's all that really matters to you, isn't it?_ Victor thought with a scowl. _You self-important git. I know you'd given up on ever curing her, but to say that you might_ prefer _her being locked away again? How this arse ever got a reputation for compassion is beyond me._ Shaking his head, he read on:

_"As for Victor, still no luck in getting him back into treatment – not that I'd trust him to cooperate even if I could. The stubbornness he exhibits whenever I try to bring him deep – not to mention his insistence that he's a 'real adult.' Ugh. Not even Alice tries my patience so hard. Fortunately, the one bit of good news I've had today is Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort finally authorizing more radical treatments. About bloody time. At last I'll be able to reach as far into his brain as I like and make him realize his true place in this world. Shame such a handsome boy should be such a fool as well, but soon it won't matter. That mouth of his will make him a particularly good"_

And that was where Victor's brain locked up, because the next word was one that not even the worst of his bullies back in Burtonsville had used to describe him.

Victor grabbed the edge of the desk, reeling. Bumby – Bumby thought of him as – he swallowed, hardly able to believe it. He'd been accused of being one of Sodom's ilk before, mainly by Splatter and his girls, but not even _they_ had used _that_ word for him! How could Bumby even –

_The deeply-unnerving sensation of eyes burning a hole through the back of his trousers. . .standing back up only to come face-to-face with the last person he expected. . ."What – oh. My apologies, Victor – I was thinking of something else. . . ."_

Victor found himself reaching to cover his backside as the memory played out before him. He'd thought for sure that he'd been imagining things, letting his dislike of the doctor get the better of him, but now – he shuddered, skin crawling underneath his suit. _At least now I have an explanation for why he leaned so close to me during some of our sessions. . . ._ On impulse he flipped backwards through the journal, wondering if he'd find some sort of sick paean to his rear.

Instead, he found pages and pages full of numbers, neatly arranged in rows and columns. Victor frowned at them, uncomprehending. _It – it looks rather like the ledgers Father uses for the fish stall in the town square – just not so neatly printed. But why do this in his personal diary? Shouldn't he have a separate book specifically for the business of the orphanage? Whatever business that is. . . . "Profit," "Amount Paid," "Market Value," "Production Costs"_ –

_"Children."_

The word burned on the page, as if written in hellfire. Victor stared at it for a moment, then slowly made his way down the column. Numbers from one to twelve, just like Reggie and Abigail and Charlie and all the rest wore ( _"why make them wear_ numbers _? That just seems so – dehumanizing. . ."_ ). And across from each one, a series of figures expressed in pounds, shillings, and pence. "Production Costs" (Bumby _had_ complained about how much it took to feed and clothe his charges). "Market Value" (not a factory in this city that would refuse child labor. . .or was he – gonophs and lurkers in Limehouse, and a little girl he'd sworn he'd known. . .). "Amount Paid" (and what high amounts they were). "Profit."

Sales figures. Bumby was _selling_ the children.

Part of him wanted to stop right there – to slam the book closed and run as fast as he could to empty his stomach in the privy. But his own horror held him in place, forcing him to continue flicking through the journal, needing to see just how deep the rabbit hole went. Most of the pages were taken up with the ins and outs of Bumby's cruel business, but there were plenty that were dedicated to the psychiatrist's private thoughts:

_"Little Anthony squeaks so sweetly when the instrument is inserted. I'll have to double his price on the market. They want the best, they can damn well pay for it."_

_"Crew from Old Nichol says he wants me to provide him more girls. A hard to acquire commodity on these streets. If only Abigail didn't grip her parents' memory so tightly! Drake has implied he'd be plenty free with his coin for pigtails and scraped knees."_

_"She's not nearly as gorgeous as my first love, but Alice has a simple beauty all her own. Makes me want to take her to my bed straightaway. I wonder if she'd squirm and thrash, or just lie there like the dead. . . ."_

_"I wish those morons in the back would clear off. I've told them time and time again, she'll be ready when she's ready! Breaking her is a beautiful process – you cannot rush art! Besides, they could hardly afford her even if she was willing to spread her legs. A girl like Alice you charge top dollar for, as they say in the States."_

_"He is frustration personified! The way he parades around, pretending to be all shy and innocent – the boy violated the sanctity of marriage with a corpse! The least he could do is allow me to bend him over my desk!"_

_"Splatter being a pain again – said that he'd like the pleasure of training Alice. Hah – I told him that was reserved for me and me alone. As if he'd know what to do with her. She's taking much longer than I expected, but I must be patient. She wants to forget, I want her to forget – she'll come around. And when she does – when I rip all that dangerous knowledge out of her head once and for all, along with everything else that clutters up that pale beauty of hers – it'll be worth it to strip her of those clothes and –"_

BANG!

Victor slammed the book closed and shut his eyes, trembling. God in Heaven – this was a man people _trusted_. This was a man they lauded as a _savior_! And he was – Fury wound through his horror, burning in his veins like one of Wilson's mysterious chemical concoctions Alice had told him about. _This can't go on. Depravity like this – I have to stop him,_ now _. I'll go straight to Bow Street and show Harry and Fred. And if that's not enough, I'll send a fast letter to Father and force him to spend some of his money on a good cause for a change. Oh my God, how could my parents have ever sent me to this – this_ thing _? How could anyone with even the slightest sliver of a heart perform such acts? How could I have missed –_

"Master Van Dort?"

Victor's head jerked up. Dr. Bumby was standing in the doorway, staring at him. Victor stared back, hardly daring to breathe. For a moment, they just stood there, eyes locked, the air stiff with sudden realization: _I know everything._

Then Bumby exploded into motion, flying forward with arms outstretched and face twisted in rage. Victor snatched up the journal and ducked under the furious hands, weaving around the doctor to try and get out the door while he still could. He was too fast for Bumby to catch –

But unfortunately, he was also still too clumsy for his own good. His foot caught on some invisible crack in the floorboards, and he fell, landing hard on his chest. Moments later, a heavy weight on his back told him the doctor had him pinned. "How much did you read?" Bumby demanded, one knee pressing painfully into Victor's spine as his fingers dug into the young man's shoulders. "How much?!"

"Enough, you perverted monster!" Victor yelled, jabbing upward with an elbow. Bumby jerked to the side, and he hit nothing but air. "How can you do such things? They're _children_!"

"They're useless," was Bumby's response. "Without purpose – until I give them one. Why let them take and take and take from society when they can earn their keep? And earn it so well. . . ."

"You despicable beast!" Victor thrashed, and felt Bumby adjust his grip. "Have you no sense of decency?"

Bumby actually _laughed_. "This from the necrophiliac."

"I'm not a necrophiliac! And I'm not – w-what you called me either!" Damn it, he'd hoped to keep his voice from shaking. He'd faced down Barkis without stuttering. But Barkis wasn't even in the same league as this monster – and hadn't gotten him trapped so soon. _If only I'd thought to grab a pen or the letter opener!_

"I know," Bumby said, and now his voice was full of hate. "Do you know just how much trouble you've been to me, Master Van Dort? Refusing to let me into your mind, clinging to your delusions of an afterlife and a corpse bride–"

"They're not delusions!"

"–showing unnecessary kindness to the children," Bumby continued, ignoring him. "And getting much too involved with Alice." He leaned down, beard tickling Victor's ear. "Perhaps you're the reason she's backsliding into insanity."

"Better insanity than what you had planned," Victor growled, trying to elbow him again. Yes, a return to Rutledge would be horrible for Alice – but not as horrible as the things he'd read in that journal. "You won't touch her."

"I won't?"

"No. Not as long as I'm around."

"Really." One hand slid up to Victor's neck, pressing it down. "Then I guess I'll just have to get rid of you, then."

"Kill me?" Victor found himself wanting to laugh. He forced it back. "I'm not afraid of death. And my parents will notice me missing–"

"Not kill," Bumby interrupted, his other hand leaving Victor's shoulder. "Not quite."

With that, he slammed something (another book? an inkwell? that decorative vase he kept high on the right wall?) into the back of the young man's head. Pain burst through Victor's skull, shooting off fireworks in his eyes –

and then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can guess why I named the orderlies David and Lum, but their last name comes from one of the voice actors on the original Alice, Jarion Monroe (Caterpillar).


	20. Bedlam's Got Nothing On This

Rutledge Asylum

"Can't distinguish _reality_ from **illusion**. Remember your last journey? An _elephant_ never forgets where she left her **trunk**. When traveling by train, a _valise_ – never bigger than your head. I may be wrong, Your Grace, but I **doubt** it. Down this path of primordial _ooze_ , and sideways, once again."

No. No, not again, not again. Alice huddled in her corner, the canvas of the straitjacket _itching_ in a way that taunted her inability to move her arms. Beneath her, the padding that covered every square inch of the room caressed her bare legs with surprising softness – but that was almost worse, digging up memories of callused hands binding them with leather and iron, or sliding up her thighs, never quite reaching her innocence but always threatening. . . . She pulled them tight against herself, shivering, the scream in her throat held back by the memory of needles pinching her veins and laudanum coursing into her belly. It should be impossible to feel this trapped and yet this exposed. . .oh God, why had she let it come to this again?

"Indeed, **Doctor** ; well-demanded I'm sure," Nurse Cratchet put in, always the sycophant. "I **mean** to say, it's very _hot_ in here." Her features blurred, becoming smooth marble for a moment as her voice dropped a sudden octave. "I mean to say – **fuzzy**. And she's not _helping_. No, no **help** at all!"

Hot? Cratchet had to be mad herself. It was freezing in this wretched room – Alice's calves prickled with goosebumps, as did her freshly-shaven head. _My hair. . .it was only just starting to get as long as I'd like again,_ she thought, sniffling. _Why'd you have to take it away why'd you have to take_ everything _away_ –

" _Humiliation_ , I say!" Dr. Wilson burst out, and she cowered into the padding. "I approve your **release** and back you come like a **bad** penny. Reputation in _ruins_!" He rubbed his forehead. "People talk, Alice. I'm an _old_ dog. . .buried the bone. . .don't you know? **Loyalty**. . .you must never _run_ away from **home**." He pointed at her, eyes hard behind the twinkling gold-rimmed lenses on his nose. " **Stay** , Alice, _sit_!"

"Can I do much else?" Alice muttered, a flicker of defiance flaring up through the haze of terror surrounding her. She immediately clamped her mouth shut. _Damn it, here comes the camphor and prussic acid. . . ._

Fortunately, Wilson and Cratchet apparently didn't heard her utterance – or if they did, they simply didn't care. Tut-tutting to each other, they turned and left, weaving with every step as if they were drunk. Alice watched as they bobbed their way down the hall, flush with despair. That was it, then. She'd been left here to rot and die, slowly crushed between soft walls of –

The door was open.

_They'd left the door open._

Alice's eyes nearly popped out of her head. Had they really – Dr. Wilson at least was smarter than that, wasn't he? He knew what she was capable of – why on earth would he leave her door gaping wide? Did they think her catatonic again? Did they trust the straitjacket to prevent her from escaping? Or was someone else due in shortly, carrying heavy leather cuffs and iron shackles to truss her up like a Christmas goose?

_Forget that!_ her mind screamed. _The portal to freedom's right in front of you! Stand up! Stand up!_

Of course, that was easier thought than done. Alice grunted and pushed and wiggled against the wall, digging her heels into the cotton and forcing herself up inch by laborious inch. The straitjacket burned her skin as she rose, resisting her at every turn. One shoulder popped free as she navigated a particularly bulbous bit of fabric – unfortunately, further rubbing proved that that was all she was going to get. _If only I could blast this away like I did my London dress. . .oh Wonderland, where are you now?_

It took a full three minutes, but eventually, she stood on her own two feet again. Clenching her toes to keep from tipping over, she flexed her elbows and squirmed as best she could. Nope – they'd belted her in tight. No help from her arms today. But she could totter around, and right now, that was all she needed. She promptly wobbled her way to the door, peeking into the hall to check for any inconvenient staff.

Rutledge was exactly as gloomy and terrible as she remembered it. Ancient oil lamps dangled from the ceiling, providing just enough light to accentuate the huge pools of darkness that filled the space between them. Misshapen drips and splatters of old blood painted the vomit-green tiles of the floor, forming curious patterns of creeping horrors. Metal doors as thick as a man's forearm stood sentry up and down each wall, keeping the lunatics away from those supposedly-normal people who worked and visited there. And the chemical burn of antiseptics and other vile concoctions lurked in the foul air, biting at the eyes and throat. It was a monstrous hellhole worthy of any classical master's pen –

But it was also blissfully empty. Alice took her chance, stumbling into what just qualified as the outside world. To her right, the black beyond the lamp deepened into the vague silhouette of a door – but that was just another ward, she knew, with every chance of getting caught. She instead turned her steps left, where a T-shaped junction waited. Down that way lay the treatment rooms – and the door used for food deliveries. It was risky, incredibly so, but if she could find a knife or a scalpel or anything else with even a bit of an edge, then maybe, just maybe, she could cut her arms free and make a run for it. Because she didn't deserve to be here, she knew she didn't, she didn't care what anyone said _oh please let me out –_

Something launched itself at the barred window next to her, shrieking nonsense. Alice almost leapt right out of her skin before realizing it was just another patient. She glared at him as he wailed, mouth stretching beyond the realms of physicality. "Hush!" The halls of Rutledge were never exactly silent, but if this bastard made too much noise – well, Cratchet or one of the others would come running, and everything would be over before it'd even begun.

The man's jaw snapped shut, and he flipped around, choosing now to stare at the far wall of his cell. Alice was surprised – she hadn't actually expected that to work. _He can't have mistaken me for one of the – Alice, you're really going to think that after some of the delusions you've suffered? At least this one worked in my favor._ She squinted at him as he stood there, suddenly stiff as a statue. Honestly, he _looked_ like a statue – he was paler than Victor top to bottom. Surely no man his age would already have white hair. . .and was it just her, or was the padding of his cell a lot cleaner than –

_Squeak-squeak-squeak-squeak_

_Damn!_ Alice darted for cover in the nearest stripe of shade, pressing herself up against the wall and trying not to breathe. _Don't notice me don't notice me don't notice me –_

Two hulking shapes lumbered into view in the hall across, pushing a gurney between them. Alice recognized them immediately – David and Lum Monroe, the superintendent's idiotic nephews. Furious bile rose in her throat as she remembered leather slapping against her skin and rough hands squeezing her jaw, all backed by inane giggling. _Just who I wanted to see upon my return. W_ _hat poor soul is suffering their torments –_ _ **Mr. Bunny!**_

She jerked straight as the "patient" passed in front of her, flopped across the stretcher, so close and yet so far. _No_ _, no, no_ _! They can't have it, they'll destroy it!_ Alice thought in a panic. _They've already made it stink of porridge – leave it alone! Leave it alone!_

Unfortunately, the ability to manipulate matter with her mind still eluded her, and the pair squeaked past, oblivious to her presence. Alice waddled after them, shoving her desire to escape to the side temporarily. _They won't ruin it again on my watch,_ she thought, teeth clenched. Beside her, another patient drifted helplessly in his cell, bumping into the walls and ceiling. _All I need is something to free my hands, and I'll teach them a lesson they'll never forget. Lecherous oafs – what I wouldn't give to make you squeal like the pigs you are._

The orderlies had vanished by the time she reached the intersection – no surprise, really. Snails moved faster than she did in this rotten jacket. But at least she knew where they were headed. The first of the treatment rooms was just around this corner, wasn't it? Surely she'd find something useful in there. . .she stumbled along, feet slapping against the cold tile. _What I wouldn't give for my high boots now. . .hello, what's this?_

A couple of abandoned carts were lined up against the wall. Alice moved to take a closer look, only to half-fall backward as old urine assaulted her nose. _Ah – bedpans,_ she thought, wobbling away. _Not exactly the most useful tool for slicing anything open._ _Though I suppose if I wanted to make myself stink too badly for anyone to come nea_ _r_ _. . ._ _at this point, I'm half-willing to try gnawing the damn thing off._ She tried an experimental bend – she could get her head almost between her legs, but the straps were completely out of reach of her teeth. _Probably for the best; who knows when this was last washed._ _It's certainly never been taught French or music._ Visions of straitjackets and shackles dancing the lobster quadrille filling her head, she rounded the corner and pushed her way through the heavy double doors –

Only to be confronted with a surprisingly-fragile-looking metal chair, leather restraints sprouting from its arms and legs.

What was it about such a simple piece of furniture that inspired such horror in her? Maybe it was the huge stain of brownish-red beneath its footrest, a souvenir from all those who had been forced into its seat. Or maybe it was the battered tray sitting beside it, sporting nothing but one simple drill, flaked with more of that horrible rust. Or maybe it was simply the fact that she'd been in here before, strapped down, utterly helpless as – as –

_"If it isn't what's-her-name from the idiot's ward!"_

_Tweedle-Dum's voice grated against her ears, making her fingers tighten on the arms of the chair. As if he didn't know exactly who she was! She tried to snap at him, but her voice was choked away by cloth – a "necessary precaution," Cratchet had put it. Necessary her arse – it was to keep her from calling for help! Though who would come to her aid, she had no idea. Hatter's Automatons, maybe, but one blast from their rockets would send the whole room up in – no, no, Alice, **don't**_ **think** _about_ **it –**

_"Yeah. It's Alice," Tweedle-Dee replied in his dull tones, not picking up on his brother's sarcasm. Then again, turning the handle of the drill was probably taxing his considerable brainpower to its limit. Alice squirmed, trying to dislodge the little cage they'd put atop her head to hold the instrument – no luck. David's arm was as solid as stone."Uncle's prize lunatic."_

_"How she's a prize is beyond me," Nurse Cratchet commented. "Not even that lawyer stops by anymore."_

_"Uncle says she's pretty," Tweedle-Dee said, though he didn't sound like he agreed. Well, if he didn't like her dress, he could damn well not look at it. Wasn't her fault it was always covered in blood._

_"Yes, well, your uncle is known for not being fussy with his women." Cratchet rolled her eyes, then smirked at her glaring charge. "Now why that face, Alice? Oh, I know, the instruments are gruesome," she allowed, proudly gesturing to the array of gleaming saws and knives at her side. "But a hole in the head gives the troubles more space! Just the thing for your 'stone of madness!'"_

_Madness a stone? That – was actually a good metaphor, it did feel like it dragged her down. . .but you couldn't use blades on stone, you'd blunt or snap them – was that their intention? To blunt her mind, snap her will? Grotesque monsters! If the **Queen** couldn't stop her, why did they think they had a chance? "Good for seizures too, mebbe," Cratchet added, as if to convince her further. "You must be as sick of those as I am hearing you **whinge** about them!"_

_Alice tried to kick and pull, but the straps held, strong and tough as steel. "No running this time!" Lum laughed, and oh how she wanted to introduce his face to the Croquet Mallet_ __–_ then there was a sharp pain at the very top of her head, and suddenly all her attention was focused on the drill now biting through her skin, ready to bore out blood and bone and maybe even brain – another twist, another jolt, and this simple gag would not hold back her scream – _

And then, miracle of miracles, Dr. Wilson had burst in and told them to "get that bloody contraption off her!" The rest of the memory was mostly a babble of voices – "It were Cratchet's idea!" "Going against my _direct orders_ –" "We were just trying to help the suffering soul!" "Do we still get paid if she don't get better?" – but she could clearly make out Wilson loosing her from the chair, holding his handkerchief to her bleeding scalp as he helped her up: "Don't worry, Alice – I would never approve of trepanation in your case. And especially not without anesthetic!" For three days afterward, he'd been her White Knight upon an L-shaped horse, and even after he'd started his own ridiculous treatments again, she'd never been able to think of him as badly as she had before. Alice opened her eyes, catching her breath as the surge of adrenaline abated –

Then shrieked as she saw the huge drills jammed through the walls and ceiling, fresh blood still dripping off their tips. _Oh God_ _ **oh**_ **God** _–_

_You know, they'd probably slit th_ _e_ _se straps like butter, s_ ome tiny part of her whispered. _We know how sharp they are, after all._

_And end up looking like a bloody, meaty hunk of Swiss cheese should they whirr to life? I_ _ **don't**_ _think_ _ **so**_ _!_ Ignoring how much she'd sounded like the Queen of Hearts just then, she scrambled out of the room, somehow managing not to slip in the spreading crimson puddles beneath her.

She pattered down the hallway beyond, eyes scanning the area carefully for any chance of escape. Nothing but more cell doors, locked tight against all intruders and pitch black behind their tiny windows. Speaking of the Queen, this reminded her of the Heart Palace dungeons. Except worse – at least the Queen had been merciful enough to let her keep the use of her hands! _Dreadful ironies. . .am I going to have to walk through this entire facility to find my freedom?_ _They'll probably find me if I do. . . ._ For a moment, the doors seemed to spring open, disgorging wave after wave of needle-nosed doctors and tentacled nurses, swarming her and carrying her back to the drills as they _jabbed_ and **squeezed** and –

She shook her head rapidly, dispelling the illusion. _Don't even think about it, Alice, or you'll never find your way,_ she counseled herself, tottering onward. She bumped into the wall as she encountered another corner, pressing her shoulder against it to keep herself steady. _Just keep moving_ _._ _Just keep moving and you've got a chance. Just keep –_

The shriek of metal against tile pulled her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see the double doors of another treatment room opening wide to accommodate her. _How kind – I think. What's this one's particular brand of – oh no. No_ no _**no –**_

She stared at the tiny, blurred sign set above the frame, breath coming in quick, terrified bursts. _Bloodletting._ _Don't want to go in here I don't_ want _to_ _ **go**_ _in_ **here** _–_ _but – I can't go back to the_ _ **drills**_ _either –_ _no_ _no no –_

She flung herself against the nearest cell door, succumbing briefly to the urge to hide. . .but there was no way in, and the current occupant probably didn't want company anyway, crucified as she was against her bed, haloed with sharp metal. _A true angel of_ _ **Hell**_ _. . . ._ Alice closed her eyes and got her wits back about her. _Keep moving,_ she reminded herself. _You're strong, you can get through this._ _Still better than being caught, right?_ _Go now and you'll never have to see it again._ Taking a deep breath, she wobbled inside, intending to just run (well – fast-walk) through and be done with it.

The bed was the first thing her traitorous gaze found – old and sagging in the middle, stained brown and red and yellow. She tried to step around, but a cart rolled into her path, scratched and dented, smelling of chemicals and – She ripped her eyes away, only for them to fall on the shelves lining the walls, creaky and rusted with their paint chipping off. . .and the jars lined up across them, fat and clear and filled with – with –

_"Tighter, tighter! You know what happens if she's allowed to muck about!"_

_The belts bit into her flesh, sharp as Jabberspawn teeth. Alice flexed her fingers, wishing her weapons would appear. The Blade would slice these straps into ribbons, and the Cards deal a nasty blow to the wretched Tweedle-Dum (wait, no, she'd slaughtered him already – that was Lum, not that he was any improvement) standing above her. But her beloved toys were far out of reach in this realm. She stared at the lava dripping through the cracks in the ceiling – "I'm not on holiday," she told the Mock Turtle again, and wished that she was._

_"That does it, Nurse – any more, and they'll snap," Lum reported_ _, tugging at a buckle_ _._

_"Good. Now fetch our little friends." Nurse Cratchet smirked down at Alice_ _, looking so like the Duchess Alice had to wonder for a moment if she'd somehow managed to put back her brain_ _. "_ _Some mental conditions are relieved by_ _ **bloodletting**_ _," she informed her hostage._ _"_ _Doctor thinks it won't be effective against your symptoms–"_ And he would know, _Alice thought,_ he's applied the nasty things himself enough times _"– but I'm at the end of my_ tether _, and these leeches need the_ _ **work**_ _!"_

_"A baker's dozen, nurse!" Tweedle-Lum declared, holding up a particularly fat specimen that twisted and twirled between his fingers. "Let me put them on her!"_

_"No, me, me!" Tweedle-D – David cried, holding up a jar filled almost to the brim with squirming black. Alice could see an angry red line across his cheek, and hatred burning in his piggish eyes. "I can make them **hurt**."_

_"Together, boys – she's not the only one due for a draining," Cratchet said, tone brisk and businesslike even as she glowered at her charge. Alice glowered back, until icy slime touched her arm, and tiny teeth lodged themselves in her flesh – Snarks, Snarks,_ why _were there always **Snarks** – _

"Stop it!"

The sound of her own voice was enough to surprise her out of the memory. Alice rocked back and forth on her heels, forcing her stomach to settle. No. No time to waste making herself sick over the past – not here. Not now. She had to escape – had to get loose so she could go back to Houndsditch and make the bastard, the smirking, cooing graduate of Oxford ( _you should have been thrown out on your ear!_ ) who ran it pay. Getting her balance, she started forward again –

Splat. _Icy slime_ _against her skin_ _. . . ._

Alice jerked her head around just in time to see a leech, fortunately the wrong-way up, slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. She stared at it a moment as it writhed helplessly by her feet. Then, knowing full well that she was going to regret doing so, she looked up.

Tens of thousands of wet black bodies met her gaze, swarming over the ceiling like miniature versions of the piranha Alice had seen in Father's book of marine life. They squirmed and writhed against each other, as if as disgusted with themselves as any other right-thinking (or wrong-thinking) person would be. Every so often, one would be jarred loose from its fellows and fall to the floor, landing with a damp splash on the tile. Fresh blood leaked from the edges of their ganon, trickling down the wall in tiny rivulets. Had the ceiling turned to harvestable flesh? Or were the evil little monsters feeding on each other? Alice did not know and did not care. She hurried out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her, avoiding the tiny cousins of Slithering Ruin raining from the sky and trying to nip at her toes. _Worse than Queensland, how can this be worse than_ _ **Queensland**_ _ **–**_ _"The world is upside-down, Alice!"_ Hatter wailed in her head, and now she couldn't help but agree. Everything was wrong and twisted and flipped – and worse yet, she was at its mercy.

_But I'm not going to sit down and wait for gravity to smash my head against the ceiling,_ she decided, gritting her teeth in mad determination (ha ha ha). _I've started this trek, and I will damn well finish it. I left Rutledge by the front door last time – that option is not available now._ _B_ _ut I_ will _leave! I made it out of here once, I can do it again! . . .I hope. . . ._

More dirty hallway stretched ahead of her – Alice was starting to think someone had managed to put one in a duplicating machine. Every last one looked exactly alike, down to the "Quiet Please" signs mounted on the faded paint. It was enough to make her worry she was going around in circles. _No, look, the doors are different,_ she told herself, noting the sudden appearance of wood instead of metal. _I must be making progress. I just hope I don't have to go through any more treatments. . .the cold baths wouldn't be too bad, but that_ _ **electric**_ chair – _sizzling skin, burning brain – "How much voltage? And how many amps?" "No more than she deserves." "Well then, enough to_ wipe _her_ _ **memory**_ _clean!_ **Demolish** _the past!_ I know–"

"Which way's up and which way's down?"

"I was gonna say–"

"Your prayers?"

Alice blinked, suddenly cognizant of the fact that those horrible voices were coming from _outside_ her head. Peeping round the corner, she found herself facing another familiar pair of rusted double doors. _Ah – good old Ward One,_ she thought, putting what sarcasm she had left to her to use. _Where those who don't have patrons – or an inheritance – to secure them private quarters must languish. I must be mad, or else I wouldn't have come here._

The main trouble was, Ward One was also one of the regular stomping grounds of David and Lum – that's where Dr. Wilson had always banished them when he caught them harassing her. And it sounded like they were right on the other side of the doors – yes, she could just see Lum's head through the crooked window. "Don't interrupt!" he was snapping at his twin. "If I can't–"

"Go to the lavatory?"

Lum rolled his eyes nearly out of his head. "Maddening. . . ."

"Yes you are. But what am I?"

_A most unwelcome obstacle,_ Alice answered, grumbling. _Damn it all. . .I wonder if they still have my rabbit? Not that it really matters, there's no way I can snatch it back from them in this state. Unless I headbutted them._ The idea of ramming her skull into their oversized bellies was amusing – if she did it hard enough, would they explode in a shower of half-digested pies? – but would only end in her dragged away in chains. _But my only other choice is_ the _**leeches**_ _. . ._ _._

"I'll give you–"

"A present? You shouldn't have. I've nothing for you."

She gulped. _Well. . .it sounds_ _like they're busy arguing. Maybe. . .maybe if I'm very careful, and they're not watching the ward too closely. . . ._ Very, very slowly, she crept forward on tiptoe ( _not_ easy when you couldn't use your arms for balance) and eased open the right-hand door, hiding behind it for as long as she could as –

Oh. The world really _was_ upside-down – in a sense, anyway. Before her, on the floor, Ward One stood in its shit brown and vomit green glory, busted carts and filthy beds standing empty at the moment, but ready to be filled once the latest crop of lunatics was harvested. However, the _ceiling_ , rather than being cracked, insect-infested plaster (hygiene had _never_ been one of Rutledge's strong points), was instead the ward done over again, this time in blinding white and heavy black. The only color there was from the blood liberally doused over the linens, which dripped steadily onto its counterpart below –

"I defer to your _enormous_ arse, your **Worship**. Just _a_ coxcomb, a – _a_ – a **catacomb** , the – the _**cat**_. . .a _felix_ feline. . ."

"What **cat**? Where? Is the _fox_ among the **pigeons**? Sly devil."

" **Moved** out of _the_ henhouse then? **What** _what_?"

And the red-striped shirts and caps of the Tweedles, hanging like bats in mirror image of the Monroes. _Oh perfect. Neither double my pleasure or fun. At least they don't seem to be paying me any mind either. . . ._ Pulling her gaze downward again, she spotted the exit (well, entrance) doors, looming wide as if in invitation. Alice sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from Monroes to Tweedles and back. It was a terrible, terrible risk – but it was one she would have to take. _You made it through two – third time's the charm?_ Courage thus bolstered, she plunged forward.

To her mild surprise, it was Tweedle-Dee who noticed her first. "Fox back in the henhouse!" he cried as she pattered her way beneath him.

"What?"

Tweedle-Dee pointed. "Nurse's favorite lunatic!"

"Oh, her!" Tweedle-Dum said. He leered down. "Still without any meat on her, I see. Dr. _Bumby's_ **medicine** didn't do much to fatten you up!"

"She's not delectable at all, _**no**_ _-way_ **no-** how!"

"Shut up," Alice muttered, continuing her slow but steady course. The twins could taunt and tease all they liked – so long as they didn't fall off the ceiling and start _feasting_ on her **blood** , she'd pay them no mind. Her escape was getting closer by the moment, but she had to reach it before–

"If you don't stop it, I'll rip out your tongue!"

"Like they say the kitty – Hey! Look!"

"You really think I'm going to fall for that? They dropped you on your head when you were born, David, I swear."

"No, no, look! I mean it!"

"Oh, fine, if it'll – what – _you_! Who let you out?!"

_Shit!_ Alice broke into the closest thing she could to a run as the twins gave chase. "Fox is gonna lose her tail!" Tweedle-Dum smirked.

"Shame – she's got a nice bottom," Tweedle-Dee said.

"I said shut up!" Alice leaned forward as much as she dared, avoiding David's meaty hand by a hair's-breadth – the cold tile beneath her changed color, but Lum was right behind –

And then, by some miracle, the doors slammed shut, forcing him back into the ward. Alice paused to get her breath as the furious orderlies pounded on the metal. "Get back here! Cratchet'll have our heads for this!" Lum shouted.

"'Les we bring her yours!" David added, tone poisonous. "I'll whack it off myself! With a _spoon_!"

"Not if you can't catch me," Alice muttered, sticking out her tongue at them before soldiering onward. Goodness, she almost felt close to smiling after that! A narrow escape, to be sure, but still an escape. Just the confidence boost she needed. _I will get out_ _,_ _I will get out_ _,_ _I_ will _get out!_ she repeated to herself, nodding with each word.

More tan and green walls, more doors to nowhere, more corners to turn. . .and then, another crooked sign: _Waiting Room._ _Oh, so I'm near the front!_ Alice realized with a pleased jolt. _Perhaps I'll be able to leave through_ _that door_ _after all. Visitors should hardly be a problem, and I can creep by whoever's drawn front desk duty._ She practiced her crouch – yes, she could stand up again, though she wobbled dangerously – then crept up to the doors and took a peek inside. The room stood cold and empty before her. _Too_ cold and empty – no staff at all, and everything was such a pristine _white_ it didn't look quite **real** –

A hand grabbed her shoulder, spun her around, and thrust her down onto one of the couches. Startled, Alice looked up to see Dr. Bumby leaning over her, a sly smile on his lips. "Come now, Alice," he said, taking a friendly seat beside her. "Am I not to be as much honored and obeyed as the Queen? Is that asking too much? I want what _she_ wanted." He scooted closer, pressing his clammy palm against her thigh. "Give yourself over to that. Trade the _tentacles_ for the **Train**. It's altogether a _better_ **ride**." His eyes narrowed, expression curling into a sneer. "It's that, or _**back**_ _to_ **Rutledge**!"

_Don't you touch me_ don't _you_ _ **touch**_ _me you beast you_ **monster** _I'll have your_ _ **skull**_ _for what you did to_ Lizzie _–_ Alice tried to get her mouth to work, to spit the full force of her venom in his face, but then someone plopped down heavily on her other side, and her head automatically turned to see Pris Witless sitting there. "Never a kind word or reward for services rendered," the old nurse complained, glaring sideways at her former charge. "Don't I deserve a bit of luck? Don't piss on what's _right_ and _owing_ to me, I say." She smirked, voice darkening with evil pleasure (or was it just the stink of Blue Ruin?). "Brought you _out_ of the **asylum** – now you'll _go_ _ **back**_ on your **own** _accord_!"

_No – no,_ _I'm not_ _,_ _I'm not going back, I'd_ _ **never**_ _go_ **back** – Bumby's form on her left abruptly twisted and grew, and Alice jerked around to see Nanny now in the seat, eye still purple and blue from Splatter's tender treatment. "I told your mother, dear – you're a distant and stubborn child, too content in her own world," she said, tone disappointed. "Young women need to leave their Wonderlands – the real world is not so **wonderful**." She sighed and fixed her peacock feather. "You'll need to _grow_ **up**. Perhaps some _more_ time in – ' _ **care**_?'"

_I am grown they won't help me here please Nanny you were supposed to be on my side –_ Another ballooning of a form, and now Alice found herself facing Radcliffe on her right, scowling at her as if she'd just broken a priceless Ming vase. "You look decent enough – but appearances deceive," he declared, arms folded. "I know you for an _unstable_ and **violent** person. Certainly not the kind who should be seen in the company of the _nouveau riche_." His lip curled with distaste. "I can't say I'm surprised you've been incarcerated in the **asylum** again. A _long stay_ under **supervision** would serve you _**right**_!"

And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone, leaving only the white tiles and the white walls and the white desk and the white couches – white, so much _white_ , it had _never_ been this clean at Rutledge, they must have done the _washing-_ _ **up**_ just for **her**. . . . _But I'm_ not _staying, I'm not, I'm not,_ Alice repeated to herself, though her confidence had leaked away. _They're wrong,_ _they're all wrong,_ _Radcliffe and Nanny and_ Pris _and_ _ **Bumby –**_ _I won't let them be right. I certainly won't let Bumby be right. Fuck the tentacles_ and _your_ _ **train**_ _!_ She wrenched herself back to her feet, ignoring as best she could the way the world wobbled and shuddered before her eyes. It didn't matter – nothing mattered except _making_ it **out**. She'd come this far – to fail now would be the definition of tragedy. She stumbled forward, elbows and wrists aching from their imprisonment, skin chafing under the canvas. _Have to figure out a way to get this off on the_ _ **fence**_ _. . .without_ **hanging** _myself. . .or is_ that _the only way_ _ **out**_ _of_ here _?_ _No Alice no you had your chance with the_ **spoon** don't _think about_ _ **it**_ _–_

Through the doors, and into the front hall, still whiter than white except for the _red_ splashed all over the floor. Her toes turned an unnatural crimson as she waded through, soles sticking to the tile more and more with every step – but she would not stop. Stopping meant a fate worse than death. _Just keep going, just keep going._ _All that matters. Just keep_ going _._

"Aeurgh. . . ."

Alice lifted her head to see a fellow patient cowering against the wall, hands protecting a face mutilated by metal. Pale and unreal as the furniture, his wild eyes still made her give him a wide berth. Right around the corner, another man trapped in canvas and blinded by bandages beat a steady tattoo against the wall with his head, adding another drop of red against the white with each dull smack. Pity welled up inside her for these poor lost souls, but she couldn't help them – not without helping herself. And she trusted her ability to do so less and less with each passing moment. _Broken_ **bruised** forgotten _**sore**_ _, too far gone to_ _ **care**_ _anymore – not there just yet, but close so close – have to get out have to get out –_

Another turning, and suddenly before her was the final door. Alice lurched toward it, desperate to finally be free –

_BANG!_

Alice shrieked and stumbled backward, feet slipping and leaving ugly red smears all over the floor. But she had to get back, had to get away, because that was David and Lum – or were they Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum? Did it really matter? – looming large within the open frame, and she couldn't be caught, not by them, not by anybody – her feet slid again, and she scrambled to keep her balance because if she fell she couldn't get up again and she'd be _trapped_ and the **orderlies** would have her in their _**grasp**_ and _no no no I'm_ _ **not**_ _insane not yet I'm not a_ _ **bad**_ penny _Dr. Wilson it's not me it's_ **Bumby** _Bumby_ destroyed my **life** _and I need to_ **stop** _him need to get_ _ **revenge**_ _which we call_ justice _I didn't kill my family don't take me back I don't –_

"–belong here!"

Alice bumped to a stop against the wall, eyes wide. David and Lum hadn't even noticed her, too intent on the new patient they were dragging inside the asylum – one Victor Van Dort. Her friend – her _beloved_ – was bound in a straitjacket even tighter than hers, and his bare feet squealed against the tile as he tried to stop them pulling him further in. "Please, p-please no!" he begged, looking from one Tweedle to the other with red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks clear on his pale face. "I'm not insane, I'm n-not! It happened, I s-swear! Please, let me go!"

Tweedle-Lum laughed. "That's what they all say. We know better! You must be mad, else you wouldn't have come here! But we'll fix you up soon enough." He tousled Victor's hair mockingly. "First a visit with the _shaver –_ this disgusting mop ought to be thrown down the loo!"

"I want to take him to the **leeches** ," Tweedle-David said. "You think he could get any paler?"

" _Cold saltwater_ might do the trick," Tweedle-Lum replied. "An hour or two and he'd be as **blue** as he claim the dead are! Or maybe _prussic_ _ **acid**_ would suit him better?"

"Bet he'd jump in the _chair_ ," Tweedle-David observed, shaking Victor like a rag doll. " **Ten** _ **thousand**_ **volts** clears any head!"

"Lock him _tight_ against the wall, like he's in a **coffin**!"

"Twirl him _round_ in that new **spinny thing** Doctor's got!"

"I know what'll do it! The _**drill**_!" Tweedle-Lum announced, chortling as he stabbed his finger at the ceiling. "A little less _**brain**_ gives the troubles more _**space**_!"

" **NO!** "

The orderlies' eyes locked on her, but Alice didn't care anymore. Her vision had gone a _violent_ , jittery **red** , and she could practically smell the Ragebox's steam as it exploded in her face. The straitjacket tore like paper as she let out an ear-piercing, Hysterical _scream_ , filling the air with tatters of cloth – and what did it _matter_ if it left her naked; all that meant was that the Tweedles would be distracted long enough for her to _claw out their_ _ **eyes**_! They wouldn't have her, and they would _not_ have her Victor! Shrieking fury, she lunged at David –

And found herself attempting to throttle a lamppost.

This time the surprise did send her tumbling down onto her bottom. Alice blinked, jerking her head left and right as she tried to get her bearings. The white walls of Rutledge had vanished, replaced by cool night air filled to the brim with a heavy fog. Beneath her was dry ground and dead grass, not a hint of tile or blood. She examined herself minutely, hands roaming everywhere (and wasn't it a relief to be able to move them however she wished!). Her faithful black-and-white dress was back on her body, looking a bit worse for wear thanks to her unthinking adventures – but still softer than canvas, and granting her poor abused legs a degree of modesty under the stockings. And on her head – shaggy dark hair, still there, still growing out, not all shaved off to be sold to a wig-maker's. Alice nearly wept from the relief. "Oh, thank God. . . ." A hallucination, that was all. A nightmare brought on by the Queen's warning. She wasn't in Rutledge – and neither was Victor. They were safe.

" _Is that asking too much? I want what she wanted. . . ."_

. . .Safe for now. A flicker of her cut-off anger returned, just a tiny squirt from the Ragebox. Bumby was still out there, after all. _You bastard,_ she thought, getting back to her feet. _You made my poor sister's life an absolute misery, and then, when that wasn't enough, took it away from her altogether! Along with my mother and father – and you hoped to get me in the bargain, didn't you? Probably hoped I'd kill myself in Rutledge. . ."forget it, Alice," ugh! And to think I listened to you!_ She scrubbed at her face. _No more – if you thought I was intent on remembering before, oh-ho, wait until you see me now. I'll dig up every last moment of the night you_ murdered _my family and find something that'll prove your guilt to the entire world! And then I'll tell Victor, and we'll see you rot in jail together!_

_"_ _I never got a chance to tell you that Dr. Bumby threatened me with 'radical treatments' before, did I?"_

Alice froze, sudden fright bringing her righteous fury up short. That was right – when she'd fallen back down the rabbit hole at Radcliffe's, she and Victor were expecting an end to his temporary reprieve from the pills. It wasn't unthinkable that his parents had finally authorized the wretched things by now. And while she was quite certain Victor would never take them willingly, Bumby was obviously not above using force to get his way. . .another vision of her love in the institutional whites swam before her eyes, hair reduced to stubble as he rocked back and forth in a padded cell, pleading for mercy that would never come. Was that the inevitable end of his and Bumby's tiff? _Never,_ she promised herself, stiffening her spine and clenching her fists. _I'll never let Rutledge have him. Don't worry, Victor – no matter what happens, I'll protect you_ _._

Well – if she could find her way back to Houndsditch. Where in God's name _was_ she? Alice squinted out into the gloam, but all that was visible was a nearby set of benches, the vague shape of a tree, and the glowing aura of the next lamppost. She rocked on her heels, pondering. Trees around and earth beneath her, so she couldn't be on the street. . .a park then – Hyde Park? Something about this place did feel just the tiniest bit familiar. . .but the sea of blank gray made it impossible to be sure. _It could be that I've wandered out of London altogether and into some tiny hamlet like Burtonsville. I wouldn't think I was capable of walking that far, but I've proved full of surprises over the past month or two._ So what happened now?

_Guess the best_ _thing to do is follow the light,_ Alice decided, jogging forward. The post resolved itself after a few moments, tattered advertisements plastered all round. Another loomed up out of the fog, a friendly yellow orb in this dank and dreary world. _Maybe I'll stumble upon someone who can help me. And who won't automatically beg sexual favors in return._ Keeping a steady pace up and a sharp eye out, she followed the golden glow as it swelled up from each lamp. _Left,_ _left,_ _then left again. . .I'd better not be running in a –_

"Help, Alice! We need your help!"

What? Who was that? Alice stopped, eyes scanning what little she could see of the world to try and find the source of the voice. "Don't desert us – again!" it cried. "Don't ignore us!"

There – right in front of her, in the next circle of light! She could just see something human-shaped crawling along! "I hear you!" she called as she darted forward. "I–"

Her jaw dropped in horror. The creeping figure was the ginger-haired child she'd seen at the very beginning of her adventures, the one who had pointed her in the direction of Hatter's Domain. Or, rather, it was _half_ of that child. The poor thing had been sliced neatly in two at the waist, forcing the little one to drag herself forward with her hands. A trail of blood extended into the mist from her scissored-off stump, matching the red leaking from the girl's eyes and hairline. _How on earth is she even still_ alive _after such an operation?!_ Alice thought, dropping to her knees before the child. _My imaginary friends have always been tougher than they look, but this is just – madness!_

The little one reached out to her with trembling fingers. "You haven't before," she whispered. "I tried to tell you. . . ."

"I tried to keep up," Alice replied, stroking the child's hair. "What _happened_ to you? Why do you suffer? The Queen's tyranny is just a memory. She has no power over you – does she?" _If that bitch really does have something to do with all of this –_

"Our enemies come and go," the child said, eyes darting left and right as if she expected some demon to swoop down and carry her away before she could finish her speech. Which was all too likely to be the case in Wonderland these days, Alice had to admit. "But now a new evil reigns. And this fiend's malevolence has eclipsed the conquered Queen's!" Her hand closed on Alice's skirt. "Stop him, Alice! Avenge us all! Take back your crown!"

And with that, the last of the life finally drained from the child's body. She slumped to the ground, eyes closed in eternal sleep, blue claiming her skin. Alice remained where she was, hand still tangled in the girl's now-purplish locks. New evil. . . . _"But evil's face changes rather quickly, and while her heart is still dark, it's not as dark as_ _ **Ruin**_ _. . . ._ _y_ _ou picked up her crown_ _._ _B_ _ut now you've put it_ down _. A monster she was – but at least she was_ our _monster."_ "Bumby," she spat, disgusted. "Of course. I pretty much handed him control of Wonderland the moment I decided to enter his therapy, didn't I? What a fool I was. . . ."

She stood up at last, brushing dirt off her skirt. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the child's corpse. "I'm sorry to have been so dense that you had to die to deliver your message. But I promise I'll kick the bastard out. Wonderland will be mine and mine alone again before long." Her brow wrinkled. "Though – why would Bumby's avatar try to destroy you? You were Hatter's playthings back when his domain echoed Rutledge, which was fair enough. But Bumby makes his living off curing–"

_"How can these children be adopted if no one ever comes over_ to _adopt them?"_

Something deep in her brain clicked into place. Faces appeared in her memory, shimmering and changing like quicksilver – the face of every child that Dr. Bumby had sent off to a "good home." The ones who'd sung nursery rhymes and stared at nothing for long stretches. The ones who'd barely seemed like children at all.

The one whom she'd thought she'd seen being put up for sale in the worst part of Limehouse. _Oh God – Caroline,_ was _that you? How did you end up there? Did he really –_

Alice hugged herself, bile rising in her throat. Bumby had been willing to kill her entire family for the crime of her sister not being interested in him romantically. Was it such a stretch to think that he didn't have the best interests of the children under his care at heart? She and Victor had agreed during previous discussions he treated everyone around him like a personal possession, to be taken and given as he pleased. . .and suddenly she remembered all the odd, hungry glances he'd sent her way, the day he'd sent the backdoor men scrambling with a look that suggested he thought of Alice as _his_ toy. . .and Victor's brief insistence that he'd caught the man staring at his arse. . . .

The stench of burning wood and the crackle of a raging fire hit her then, yanking her out of her thoughts. Turning in the direction of the little girl's blood trail, she saw her home rising out of the fog, burning bright as a Yuletide log. Burning from the blaze Bumby had set. She gritted her teeth as she watched the flames leap from the windows. She'd once faced the Jabberwock, the avatar of her own misplaced guilt and fear, in the scorched remains of the Liddell home. Would entering this time introduce her to Bumby's Wonderland form? Would she find the depot of that Infernal Train at last, and the way to stop it before it tore apart everything and everyone she loved?

_Let's find out,_ she thought. _For the children, for Victor, and for myself._ Girding her lions and swallowing back her fear, she dashed forward into the flames. Heat enveloped her, smoke choked her lungs, and for a moment she wondered if she'd made a horrible mistake. Then the fire cleared, and she found herself atop a high platform, looking out over – _a toy junkyard?_

Puzzled, Alice turned in a circle, taking in as much of the scenery as she could. This was as far from her expectations as could be. Below her tower were endless piles of the common debris of childhood – torn off doll limbs, broken bits of miniature furniture, snapped pencils and crayons, and a million other unrecognizable chunks of color. Stretching up from these hills of trash was a city of dollhouses – brightly painted, but in severe disrepair. Roofs seemed ready to slough off at the slightest touch, walls were cracked or missing large splintered chunks, wallpaper hung in tattered strips, and the furniture – _I've heard of armchairs before, but I'm quite certain they're not meant to have actual arms,_ Alice thought, squinting at the open room behind her. _Nor a table legs that require little stockings. A clever use of the parts, perhaps, but damn if it doesn't make the whole world seem that much – sicker._

She turned back around, examining her path across this baffling landscape. Platforms atop rickety scaffolding (probably whatever remained of houses that had finally crumbled into the garbage heaps), covered in thin, torn patchwork quilts or painted in faded rainbow colors led the way, broken up here and there by little floating houses, with steam jetting from their chimneys and cycloptic eyes peering at her from under their roofs. It all suggested a place of silliness and fun, joy and laughter, but – the dull hue of the sky, the aching silence in the air, and oh yes, that _giant black tower_ looming on the horizon suffused the entire realm with an intense aura of _wrongness_. _Well, this is where you get Ruin from, I'm sure of it. I always did prefer stuffed animals to dolls._

"I might have chosen another gown then."

"Cheshire? What – oh." Alice grimaced as she looked down. Yes, new realm, new dress – and this one matched its surroundings better than she'd like. It was playfully mismatched – top banana yellow with vertical sky-blue stripes and matching buttons; bottom black with dark pink checks and a lighter pink petticoat; fingerless gloves sporting horizontal bands of teal and white. But rather than being charming, something about the disjointedness seemed rather – disturbing. Especially when you saw the stuffing poking out of her left sleeve, and Hollow Ives in the form of a doll's head much too close to those of the Ruin for her liking. The gown seemed to suggest _she_ was a toy – a doll to be dressed up and played with and then discarded on a shelf. Alice shivered, then glared out across the landscape of rotting childhood. "I'm not your plaything, you monster," she whispered, Vorpal Blade materializing in her hand. "And I'll prove it to you, one way or another."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American McGee's said on American McGee.com message boards that Alice was never actually trepanned, hence why I had Dr. Wilson rush in and stop it. I also owe knowing the word "gloam" to a "Corpse Bride" fanfic written by one of my regular FF.net reviewers, CoriOreo.


	21. Where Childhood Goes To Die

The Dollhouse

For most of the last year, and a good chunk of the years before that, Alice had been certain that Queensland was the worst circle of Hell one could find in all of Wonderland. The dusty brown paths of the Wonderland Woods, infested with Army Ants and Mechanical Ladybirds; the mirrored maze of Hatter's Domain, patrolled by Automatons and Nightmare Spiders; even the sulfur-tainted cliffs of the Land of Fire and Brimstone, brimming with Jabberspawn and Fire Snarks – all bowed down to the Queen's horrendous castle. Even now, Alice merely had to close her eyes to relive it all again. The _splish, splish, splish_ of bodily fluids dripping from mysterious orifices and splashing into ornamental fountains. . .the brief, nerve-wracking glimpses of tentacles slithering through shadowed hallways and peeping through cracks in the walls. . .the overpowering stench of rotten meat assaulting her nose, permeating every square inch of the earth (if you could call it that). . .the pulse of blood-slick flesh beneath her abused fingers as she scaled bricks carved from muscle and fought Card Guard after Card Guard . . .it had been horror beyond anything she'd seen at that point. Even her visit to the dried-out husk that now sat in its place had been terrible in its reminders of the glory days. How could _anything_ compare to what the Queen of Hearts had corrupted into an extension of her own _body_?

_Well, now I have my answer,_ Alice thought, wrinkling her nose as she sliced up another hunk of roach-filled cake. _Five minutes – perhaps not even that – and I must allow that this realm has the better of the Queen's in terms of sheer horror. I may be spared skinless flesh floors and pus-filled globules poking out everywhere, but tell me – is seeing a pair of ruby lips painted on a child's block, stacked atop another sporting a too-short petticoat, truly any better?_ She glanced down at the frosting-covered insects still squirming at her feet. _Or if we must go by what nauseates me the most, these little monsters will do just fine. What a waste of good pastry!_

Kicking the roaches away, she exited the wreck of a dollhouse, leaping into the steam handily spouting from a tiny chimney. It was sad, really – this was the sort of world she would have loved to explore as a child. What little girl wouldn't have adored a town made of toys, with petit fours and cupcakes liberally scattered around for the tasting? But no, instead she got piles of trash and furniture that looked like it could chase you down if you sat it on wrong. Who knew having stockinged feet beneath your end table could be so _creepy_? _Maybe it's the little bows on the tops of the socks_ _that remind one of grown-up garters_ _. . .or maybe it's those cracks that look almost like fingers stroking the flesh. . . ._ Alice shuddered as she landed back at her starting point. _No joy or fun to be found around here, not anymore_ _. This is where childhood goes to die._

Well, if she wanted any hope at saving it, she had to get moving. She'd already been forced into one (admittedly profitable) detour – no time to waste on another. She started back across the ramshackle path. Navigating the first couple of quilted platforms was easy – it was the ones controlled by the pressure plate that made her stop and think. _I've got to get the timing just right_ _, otherwise I'll be running in circles again. The plate makes those rise, yes, and then we have to wait for_ _that one over there that spins_ _to come round just enough_ _– now!_ She flung down the Clockwork Bomb and zipped forward, feet barely touching the green-stained wood before leaping into the steam, and then onto the raised floor. _Go go go –_

Luck was with her this time – she jumped off the splintered planks just as they descended, landing with a slight wobble before the front door of the next house. _Whew!_ she thought, wiping sweat from her brow. _All right, time to – hello, what's this?_

A pink spiral mushroom had popped up to her left, swirls gently turning as if in greeting. "Haven't seen one of you in a bit," Alice informed it with a grin. "But you wouldn't have made yourself known if something curious wasn't to be found above. Let's see what it is."

One bounce later, she found herself on the second floor of the little broken home. There wasn't much to it – just a pair of oversized chairs (fortunately _not_ boasting body parts for a change), a fogged-over standing mirror with _SAVE US_ lettered on the glass (Alice winced as she remembered the unfortunate little ginger), and – a glittering syringe. "Oh come now – I've just _gone_ through Rutledge," she complained at it, hands on hips. "Turn into something nicer, why don't you?"

The needle kept right on spinning. Alice sighed and reached out. "Fine, but if I see those horrible twins, I'm gone."

_"I don't think Mr. Radcliffe is coming back."_

_"I don't either," Dr. Wilson said. Alice couldn't see him – her eyes wouldn't open – but he had a distinct presence beside her bed. Like Father Christmas, only much less pleasant. And much heavier. "It's been a fortnight since we've seen Ms. Sharpe as well. Though that's more understandable; the woman must be desperate for work about now. . . ."_

_"It doesn't cost that much to spend an hour or two at her bedside, does it?" Nurse Darling tched and sighed. "It's just not right," she declared, a motherly fuss in her voice. It made Alice want to cry as much as hide in the woman's arms. "I see this throughout the entire ward. A swarm of people coming to bring toys and food and books the first few weeks. . .then everyone just vanishes and leaves them to wonder if they were ever loved at all. And poor Alice didn't even get that much! Mr. Radcliffe always seemed more interested in the state of the bill than the patient. Doesn't she have grandparents, or aunts and uncles, or – anyone?"_

_"No, actually," Dr. Wilson replied, voice low. "Her grandparents have already passed on, and neither Dean Liddell nor his wife had siblings, according to her file. They and her older sister were her entire family."_

_"Oh dear. . . ." Friendly fingers stroked her hair. Alice wished she could thank her, but her mouth wasn't working today either. Too much screaming the day before, probably. "Alice, I'm sorry. I didn't know."_

_"It certainly is a terrible case. I can't say I'm surprised that reporter from the_ Illustrated _is continually skulking around, looking for updates. Front page gold, I'm sure." Dr. Wilson sighed. "And for the rest of your charges. . .well. . ._ _ **a**_ _ **s beloved toys are to children, children often are to grown-ups – objects of fancy and imagination and eventually discarded.**_ _"_

"Subtlety is not your strong point, is it, Wonderland?"

Alice rubbed her arms, glancing at herself in the looking glass as it came back into view. For a moment, she fancied she could see her child self in the clouded silver, staring back at her with wide, hopeful eyes. How long had it been since she'd worn that face? Well, obviously a little over a decade, but – when she'd first come across her reflection in one of the windows in the Skool, she'd been frozen with shock for a good minute. And it had taken her another one to really accept that the young woman (who looked distressingly like Lizzie) mimicking all her movements in the glass was her. The memory of herself in the mirrors at home – all pudgy cheeks and tousled curls – had felt more real to her than the half-starved straight-haired almost-a-lady she'd become. Even now, she had moments where she didn't feel any older than eight and a half.

_And then there's times where I feel like a million years old,_ she thought, rubbing her eyes as her adult face reasserted itself. _God. . .in a twisted way, I was rather lucky, wasn't I? I had no visitors in the asylum, but that was simply because there was no one to visit. The other children. . .didn't Witless once whisper something to another nurse about one of the boys being a nephew of someone in Parliament? Would have thought that would qualify him for a better asylum than Rutledge, but since when is our government capable of spending money where it's really needed. The important thing is, not all of the rest were orphans. They should have gotten more people in their rooms than just doctors and_ _the occasional mortician._ _Shouldn't parental instinct trump the shame of having a child in bedlam? Oh, but we all know how important keeping up appearances is. . .n_ _o wonder so many spen_ _d_ _their entire lives moldering in dank cells, or f_ _i_ _nd ways to end their miserable existence early._ _And why so many pass through Bumby's cold and clammy hands,_ she added to herself with another shudder. _Again I ask – why are parents like mine taken so early from their children, and others who don't give half a damn allowed to live well into old age? Inmates running the asylum indeed. . . ._

Thoroughly depressed, she dropped through a gap in the floor into the main room of the house. The body parts were back in force here – a yellow couch with doll's arms grasping at the air stood pushed up against the wall to her left, while behind her, a pink straight-backed chair with an eye embedded in its back cushion peered suspiciously at the supposed savior. More eyes served as drawer-pulls on a green and blue desk to her right – Alice was half-tempted to jab them just to stop them staring. _But if I did, no doubt I'd have to deal with the furniture screaming. . . ._ She settled for sinking her Blade into the insect-infested sponge cake in the corner, trading feelers for molars. _At least these cakes are good for the teeth._ _So where do I go from – aha. . . ._

A keyhole-shaped door – rather like the one she'd seen in the Duchess's kitchen – was on the wall just beside her. Alice stepped in front of it and shrank, waiting for the wood to disappear.

It didn't. Puzzled, Alice tried knocking on it. No response. Tugging on the handle did no good either. "Oh for – I need a key this time? You could have said," she muttered, popping back to her normal size. "All right, where is it. . . ."

She hunted around the room, half-hoping a little glass table with the necessary implement would magically appear as it had before. Wonderland was not so accommodating this time, however. And there was nothing hidden in the desk, or under the chair, or beneath the couch cushions. Frustrated, Alice turned her attention to the artwork. The button sewed into a frame yielded nothing even when she shook it. "For God's sake, what else is there?" she demanded, turning to face the keyhole wall again –

And was confronted with a delicate white butterfly, pierced cruelly through the middle with a nail, dried blood dripping over its wings and staining both its box and the paper just below it.

Alice stared at the creature, breath caught in her throat. It – it looked just like the little crystal gifts from the man she loved. . . . As if it served the same purpose, another memory popped into her mind, a companion to the first she'd found all the way back in the Vale of Tears:

" _All these sketches – but no specimens! If you like butterflies so much, why don't you have any mounted?"_

_Victor wrinkled his nose, his expression suggesting the very idea made him vaguely ill. "It's_ because _I like butterflies so much that I don't have any mounted_ _._ _I've never been able to make a bug box in my life. I understand their value, of course, but – I simply cannot force myself to kill such sweet and beautiful creatures and then stick them behind glass on pins._ _All my work comes from live captures – and I'm sure to release them once I'm done." His hands fluttered around his face, like they intended to take off and fly themselves. "Sometimes I'll keep one for a day or two, feeding it on fresh flowers from the garden, or take a caterpillar and raise it in a jar, but – they're meant to be free. They're_ meant _to be outside our control. You can only properly capture how – how spontaneous, how beautiful, how – how_ lively _a butterfly – or anything, really – is_ _if you draw them while they're still flitting around. I'd rather have a thousand perhaps-not-quite-accurate pictures to one carefully-preserved corpse."_

" _Hmph." Alice hit him with a playful smirk. "Some amateur lepidopterist you are."_

_Victor smirked right back. "There are reasons I've never pursued this as a career, Alice."_

And then blood dripped out of his eyes and over his lips, and his cheeks became two trembling wings, and it all felt like an accusation. _How dare you say you love him?_ the broken beauty seemed to snarl. _You tease him all the time about the things he loves – even call him a liar when it comes to the most important event of his life. You drive him to distraction with worry – almost got him killed once – because you can't stay still for ten minutes while you're here. You_ left him _with the man you_ know _murdered your family and hates everything about him. Perhaps once you wake up from this particular dream, you'll find_ him _pinned to the wall like this. Your precious butterfly boy, nothing more than a bug to be shoved in a box._

"No!"

Alice shook her head violently, turning away. No. She couldn't believe that. Caterpillar had already assured her that Wonderland wouldn't keep her if Victor was in danger of losing his life. And besides, her butterfly boy was smart and kind and braver than he gave himself credit for. This was the man who'd gotten one over on Jack Splatter after all – and continually lived to tell the tale! _He's always going on about how much he wants to leave Houndsditch – maybe he's taken advantage of my absence to finally escape the wretched place. Maybe he's run far, far away, and – and abandoned me to –_

_Oh, don't you start_ that _either,_ she cut herself off, glaring at the eyes all around. _Selfish brat – you've already ignored the fact that Bumby is doing something horrible to the children under his care because you didn't want to bother yourself with looking too closely into things! How_ dare _you get upset_ _that_ _Victor might get what he wants for a change? Besides, you_ know _him – even if he has left Houndsditch, he won't have given up_ _his search_ _._ _You really doubt the man who ran into a burning building for you?_ _He loves you. Trust him._

Chastising done, Alice turned back to the box and touched the butterfly's wing. "I'll come back to you," she whispered, imagining pale skin, big brown eyes, and soft gray lips. "It may take me longer than I'd like, and I'll probably have to fight more demons than I want to, but I _swear_ I'll come back to you. I won't leave you to suffer under that bastard forever. We'll defeat him together. You'll see."

_creak. . . ._

Alice looked down to see the keyhole door open wide. "Ah." She wasted no time in shrinking down and heading into the tunnel. _Glad you're in favor of such sentiments_ _–_ _because as soon as I've cleaned up this corruption_ _and taken care of Bumby,_ _we're finding a way for him to visit,_ she thought. _I've recently gotten proof magic is real, after all._ _It's not as impossible as I thought._ _I always wanted to bring Lizzie to this place – I won't let Victor miss out on his chance._

_And besides,_ she added, thoughts drifting to the image of her Blade married with a long barbecue fork, _if there's any enemies remaining after this adventure. . .it'd be nice not to have to face them alone._

* * *

_And 'pop' goes the Ruin!_

Alice smirked as the second Drifting Ruin burst, splattering drops of black ooze everywhere before fading into nothingness. Taking down these monstrosities was easy as pie these days – _especially now that I've fully updated my arsenal,_ she thought, caressing the fanged spout of her snarling Teapot Cannon. _Though I still wish I'd been able to find the Jabberwock's Eye Staff again – that would make short work of even a Colossal. Ah well – I'm still_ _sending them all to meet their maker even with just four "toys" at my disposal_ _. Just one tiny blow after another against the machinations of that Infernal Train and its engineer. . . ._

She gathered up the spoils of war, boots clicking against the green chalkboard that made up this little valley in the center of the Dollhouse realm. Above her, more beaten and splintered houses loomed, showcasing more of the vast array of half-bakelite-bits chairs and couches she'd encountered. Still no actual dolls to populate them, she'd noticed – though she had spotted a curious lollipop creature hiding out to the left that wagged a wet tongue at her when it thought she wasn't looking. She didn't like to think what it might symbolize. Fortunately, it was keeping a respectful distance – helped by the fact that the land was crisscrossed by a series of dangerous-looking fences constructed of oversized sharpened pencils and tattered quills. Their lead and ink points divided the area up into uneven chunks, promising to make a bloody sketch out of any who dared brave them.

_And I think I know who set th_ _em_ _up,_ Alice thought, turning her gaze to the most notable feature of this spot – a wide castle constructed from letter and building blocks, chunks of dollhouse walls and doors, and whatever other scrap could be salvaged from the broken landscape. Not the sturdiest-looking of fortresses, but it seemed to hold up well enough compared to its neighbors. A cloth banner hanging over the front door declared the edifice to be _FoRt REsisTENcE_ _._ Alice smiled as she noted every "E" had been lettered backwards. _Children really are the same all over._ She ventured up the front ramp. "Hello?" she called. "It's safe to come out!"

Silence greeted her at first – perhaps the residents were unsure of the truth of her statement. But then there was a soft giggle, and the green double doors creaked open, revealing a group of four unfortunate children. All of them wore the standard stained and tattered uniform of a Rutledge patient, and were mutilated in ways to match. The boy on the farthest left snickered madly at her as he played with the drill jabbed through his exposed brain – Alice had to repress yet another shudder at the memories that drew up. The girl in the back squinted at the world over a collar of heavy metal stretching across her nose, supported both by a shoulder harness and by bolts screwed directly into her forehead. On the right, a boy mumbled nonsense to himself as he twitched against the confines of a straitjacket, lips sewn up tight while the top of his shaven skull regularly popped open to release his thoughts into the sky. And at the front was a very familiar face of stitches and scars, eyes held wide and lips pulled up into a permanent, painful smile. "You're the one who visited me. Gave me back my talent with pencils for Victor's birthday."

The girl nodded, squeezing her bloodied teddy bear tighter against herself. "I never did properly thank you for that. You're looking – well," Alice lied through her teeth.

The girl – Alice guessed that she was the leader of this ragtag band, though whether that meant she was less or more insane was up for debate – giggled as her compatriots glanced around fuzzily. "No we're not," she said with the blunt honesty of childhood.

"Well, perhaps a bit unstable–" Alice tried, still trying to be diplomatic.

"The unstable are more than merely mad!" the Leader declared, before dropping her voice to a softer, more serious register. "They have other parts. The Dollmaker will deprive of them of what remains of their deranged souls!" She pulled at her overstretched lower lip before fixing one sewn-open eye on Alice. "They need care."

Dollmaker. It didn't take a genius to figure out who _that_ truly was. At least she had a proper name for the monster now. Alice gazed at the four mournfully. How many children had there been before she'd allowed the Train to run wild? Hatter's asylum had been full to bursting – and Houndsditch much more crowded when she'd first arrived. "I know their pain," she whispered back. "I would assist. But – is sanity required for the job?"

Leader giggled again. "A limited quantity! You're not mad enough to be rejected."

"Not exactly comforting words," Alice replied, deciding to fight bluntness with bluntness.

"You didn't ask for any," Leader shot back. Her expression turned thoughtful – well, as much as it could get. "You're like them. Of them, in a way – but not them." She tugged at her hair as the drill handle whirred behind her. "I should say not 'us.' For I'm them, but you're on your way. The way is clearly marked."

" _Forget it, Alice, forget it!"_ Alice shuddered and clasped her hands behind her. "I believe I know that way," she said slowly, rocking on her heels. "And I'd rather not travel further along it."

"You'll have to take a detour then," Leader said, her compatriots nodding along before returning to their twitching. "And you'd better hurry. You're not the only one on that way."

Alice's stomach dropped straight through the ground. Right – the children left in Bumby's care. . .Abigail and Reggie and Charlie and Elsie. . . . "How – how far ahead of me do you think they are?"

"Far enough," Leader replied. "Though not too far. They're like us, but – not us. Off the rails, for now."

"So there's still a chance?" If she could save even one of them. . . .

"If he don't turn them into _them._ " A grunt from her head-popping companion. "The Dollmaker likes _them_. Likes _him_." Leader pressed a lipless kiss to her bear's head. "He'll take a shortcut if you're not careful."

The bloodied butterfly flew back into Alice's head, turning her veins to ice. Oh no – "Victor?" she asked, stepping closer. "But – he's not – he has parents, Bumby couldn't–"

A baby's squeal cut her sentence in twain. Leader's smile of course remained, but her eyes filled with sparks of fear. "It's here, you dimwits!" she cried, voice filled with anxious laughter as she turned and herded her friends back through the doors. "Get inside!"

"What's here?" Alice yelled, but the children had already disappeared behind the green wood. She spun around and darted down the ramp, wondering what on earth had scared them so. After the horrors already inflicted on them, could there be anything worse?

Another delighted giggle, then splinters and chalk dust flew past her face as something smashed its way through the line of pencils protecting the Fort's left side. Alice, choking, waved the cloud away. _Another kind of Ruin? Surely Colossal are the limit of those horrors!_ But no – as her vision cleared, she could see that waddling toward her was instead –

A gigantic living doll. Superficially, she resembled the ones Alice had seen in toy shop windows: two floppy blonde pigtails bounced atop her porcelain head, while her body was clothed in a puffy sleeveless dress and thick lace-lined bloomers that seemed to conceal far more than her perfectly sexless body would demand. But this was a doll who had been played with far too roughly for her fragile constitution. One hand was missing, leaving a jagged gaping hole at the end of her hollow arm – the other clutched half a scissor, the blade gleaming in the thin sunlight. She also lacked eyes and nose, the empty sockets giving her face a skull-like quality. Mysterious stains dripped down her cheeks in a grotesque parody of tears, and her perfect little mouth held back a voice that was nothing but mindless shrieks. It all made Alice's stomach turn. It was only right that a Dollmaker should make Doll Girls, she supposed – but it was the enthusiasm with which the Girl embraced her defilement, laughing as she bounced along on cracked and naked feet, that really broke her heart. _She could have been such a lovely toy. . .but instead she's been bent and broken to the twisted whim of a man without a soul,_ she thought. _And I – I have to fight her to make my way through this ugly world. God forgive me._

The Doll Girl squawked a greeting and swung her scissor half at Alice's neck, a hint of flame licking the blade as it flew through the air. Alice butterflied out of the way, then readied her Hobby Horse (now a glowing white unicorn with the snarl of a lion). "I'm sorry," she whispered as she swung it into the Doll Girl's middle, causing the creature to whimper in confused pain and draw her arms before her protectively. "I know you think this is all just play. I wish I could fix you, believe me. But – you're too far gone, and the others need me more." She winced as the Girl stomped her feet, sending a shockwave up her spine. "So if it's you or me in this fight. . . ." She bit her lip, then hardened both her gaze and her heart. "Then it has to be me."

* * *

"I never expected to be _grateful_ to see you floating bastards. But then again, before I didn't know Doll Girls existed. At least you – ow!"

Alice jerked backward as shards of crystallized Ruin sliced her arm before landing with a spiky splat on the wall behind her. "Never mind," she growled, yanking out the Teapot Cannon and proceeding with the usual round of explosions. "I don't know why I even bothered trying to make conversation. So desperate for company I'm talking to Ruins. . .oh Alice, you really are in a bad way." She grimaced, bile burning her throat. "If having to walk through a doll's – _nether regions_ didn't prove that already."

Fortunately, there were no further examples of _that_ disgustingness hanging around – right now the Dollhouse seemed content with candle holders made of babies' heads and suicidal wooden soldiers. Not much better, but she'd take what she could get. _The faster we hop along Frog's Way, the faster we get to where we're going,_ she told herself. _I doubt I actually want to get there, but I have to catch up with Bumby. Funny I haven't heard the Infernal Train rumbling through in a while. . .then again, it hardly has any work to do_ here _._ She sighed and pushed her hair out of her face, looking around what remained of a pink and tan living room. _All right, what do I need to do to force the path to reveal itself?_

Two options presented themselves to her. On her right, a tiny house spurted steam, leading her up to the second floor of this dissected doll's dwelling. On her left, a keyhole blocked by a purple door promised her further egress into the ground floor of the home. "May as well try being short-sighted first," she said, hiccuping herself small. "Curiosity often leads to trouble, but I'd rather find it before it finds me."

Down a flower-patterned china tunnel ( _Shades of the Mysterious East. . .oh, I hope some of the poor Ants survived the coming of the Train_ ) was a short hall, containing a crooked bookcase and a broken clock sporting long legs. Alice ignored them in favor of the doorway at the end, blocked by more befouled cake. A few sweeps of the Vorpal Blade cleared it away, leading her to what seemed to be a private dining nook, containing a pair of cycloptic chairs, a table piled high with ice creams and puddings and spider legs and roach parts, a few spare petit fours in the corner –

and her rabbit.

For a moment, Alice forgot how to breathe. It just – it didn't seem possible. Everyone in the world seemed united in keeping her separated from her precious Mr. Bunny. Dr. Wilson, snatching it away in the asylum just to see how loudly she'd scream. . .the Munroes, pouring gunk over it or threatening to rip it to ribbons every time she refused to eat. . .Nurse Witless, pulling it out of her arms and keeping it hostage until she used the bedpan. . .Nurse Darling, delivering it to Radcliffe instead of directly to her after her release. . .Mr. Radcliffe himself, locking it away in his house and complaining every time she asked for it. . .even her own brain had betrayed her once, forcing her to leave it behind on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Wonderland just presenting it to her was utterly out of the question.

And yet, there he was, clean and neat like in the good old days, button eyes gleaming and ears crisp white. Though he was missing his familiar dark waistcoat, instead attired in the White Rabbit's favorite garb – a black top hat and long red tailcoat. Well, such dress-up was appropriate; he'd inspired the Rabbit's first appearance, after all. He even had Rabbit's glittering golden watch!

The chain of which was wrapped tight around his neck as he dangled helplessly from the ceiling. _"Time to forget, Alice. . . ."_

Fury propelled her higher than she'd thought possible, but despite three tries and a bad landing that left her right boot covered in whipped cream, she was unable to free her beloved toy. The chain simply held him too strongly, and she didn't have the time to unlink it before she started falling back to the earth. And tugging him down was a sure invitation to decapitation. _He's already lost his head once – I will not inflict that on him again._ Sulking, she kicked the white fluff off her foot. _There must be a way of getting him down. It's not beyond Wonderland to taunt me, of course, but – I know I can't drag him around with me, much as I'd like, but just one hug –_

_YOU_.

Alice snarled at the glittering glasses revolving beside a pair of golden teeth. "We know you're the one who strung him up – you needn't make it so obvious!" she snapped. "Really, though, you're quite late – my first memory upon arriving should have been one of yours. You've already spread your stink quite heavily all over this world." She sighed and snatched the crystal up. "Let's get this over with."

_"The common mind has failed the children of our era. This sentiment of letting young people just run around and do as they will has led to unruly, ungovernable, and most of all unproductive adults. Most of the ills of our modern era can be traced to this desire to allow children all sorts of irresponsible liberty."_

_"What_ is _he going on about?"_

_Alice glanced up from her broom. "Oh, he's been asked to give a speech at some dinner with his colleagues. He's practicing – as if he needs it, the windbag."_

_Victor snorted. "He's about as reticent as my mother on a good day," he agreed, before frowning. "Rather – odd speech, though. Does he really think forcing children into lessons and chores all day is better than letting them play a bit? It's not like we don't have toys and games for the children here."_

_"He probably fears what public opinion would say about him if he didn't allow them some leisure," Alice replied. "I've seen him try playing with the children once or twice – he's such a stickler for rules the games don't even get off the ground. I get the feeling he was the type who got up everyone's noses when he was little. Won every game of chess but never pretended the pieces were alive just for the fun of it."_

_"You and he would have had some interesting matches, I'm sure," Victor grinned. "Sending the White Knight and all the pawns after him while he protested that they were nothing but carved ivory and could you stop throwing them please?"_

_Alice snickered. "You're sure we never met as children? You seem to know my younger self better than you ought."_

_"Excuse me, could you please keep it down out here?"_

_Alice and Victor looked up to see Dr. Bumby glaring around his door. "This is an important speech and I'd like to be sure I have it right."_

_"Sorry, Doctor," Alice said carelessly. "We'll go sweep somewhere else. Come on, Victor."_

_"Thank you." The door shut again, and Alice heard the psychiatrist resume as she led her friend down the other end of the hall. **"Every child has a purpose! It is the beholden duty of knowing adults to fit every young person to her calling."**_

And right on cue, Alice heard the squeal of a Doll Girl.

She whirled around, Vorpal Blade flashing into her hand as she left the memory – but no, nothing had popped up behind her while she was lost in thought. Just her imagination, putting a fresh voice to Bumby's words. Alice idly stroked the edge of the Blade, watching some unnameable thing skitter through a pile of tarts on the table. Bumby had spouted that rhetoric a thousand times, a thousand different ways – purpose, purpose, purpose. Everyone had one, and it was their duty to find and serve it, no matter what it might be. And it was his duty to guide them to it. Before, she'd simply thought him suffering a case of overblown ego – patting himself on the back as if he were solely responsible any time a former patient made good. Now. . .what was the purpose of a Doll Girl? Or of a Ruin of any stripe? Poor Caroline, thrown to the lowest of the low in the Limehouse market – what had her purpose been?

What was hers going to be?

Alice shuddered, then glared at the watch chain. Wretched thing, keeping her from comfort. . .she raised the Vorpal Blade to shoulder height and aimed. She hadn't done this since her defeat of the Queen, but it wasn't like it was even that far –

_whick whick whick_ – _whuck!_ With a sharp snap, Mr. Bunny dropped from the ceiling, hitting the side of the table before landing sprawled on the floor. Alice scooped him up in an instant, pressing him tight against her chest, relishing the feel of plush fur and squishy cotton –

And then he grew hard and brittle in her hands, crunching and crisping, and between her fingers trickled a pile of ash.

For half a minute, Alice stared at it, tears flooding her eyes. Then she wiped her vision clear and stalked out of the room. Fine then. She might not have her bunny, but she had her mission, and she was going to damn well see it through. _You may think you have all your tracks covered, but I'll root them out,_ she promised as she proceeded back up the tunnel. _If I can't run from my guilt, neither can you! I'll find proof of where you send the children,_ and _what you did to my family that night. It's somewhere, I know it – I can feel it in my bones. And when I do. . . ._

_Well. You'll be wishing you could face the Jabberwock instead._

* * *

_"Owwww. . . ."_

_"Please be still, Alice," Lorina said, winding the last layer of gauze over her daughter's forearm. "I'm almost done."_

_"It hurts," Alice complained, pushing her pot "helmet" out of her eyes._

_"I know it does, my dear. But I'm afraid it's your own fault," Lorina declared, tying the bandage before hitting her younger daughter with a sharp look. "What were you thinking, swinging that blade around like a madwoman?"_

_"I was fighting the Jabberwock!" Alice explained, flinging her arms wide before a stinging pain reminded her she had to be gentle with the left one._

_"The what now?"_

_"The Jabberwock! You know – ''Twas Brillig and the slithy toves–'"_

_"Oh,_ that _. . .but isn't that poem about someone killing the wretched beast? At least, that's how I understood it when you first recited it for us."_

_"He didn't stay dead enough," Alice replied, scowling as her pot fell into her eyes again. "The Queen of Hearts probably ordered he be brought back to protect her roses or some nonsense. But I had to cut his head off before he burned down the Wonderland Woods!"_

" _Yes, and_ _you_ _nearly took your arm off with it!" Lorina shook her head_ _, sighing deeply_ _._ _"_ _Alice, your father and I understand how important Wonderland is to you, but –_ _ **y**_ _ **ou're not a cat, my dear. One life is your allotment!"**_ _She squeezed her hands together_ _, expression a curious mix of fond exasperation and deep worry_ _._ _ **"**_ **Please** _ **be more careful with the carving knife!"**_

"Oh, Mother – I'm sorry, but I can't afford to."

Alice smiled sadly as Lorina transformed back into another doll-armed couch (this place desperately needed new furniture – actually, what it really needed was to be leveled to the damn ground). "How shocked would you be to see me with my Vorpal Blade?" she continued, flicking the weapon into her hand, then away again. "Slicing and dicing through endless waves of enemies, in complete contradiction to every lesson on etiquette and proper lady-like behavior you ever taught. . .but I'm sure you'd understand it's a matter of life and death." She stretched out her left arm and examined it. "Besides, you'd have to be at least a little proud of me – no cuts at all! At least, none self-inflicted. Anymore."

The doll's head tucked into the box shelves against the back wall eyed her, as if doubting the truth of that statement. "Fighting off a corruption in my mind doesn't count!" she snapped, then turned away and leapt out of the high parlor, back toward the quilted arena on stilts where she'd just delivered another crushing defeat to more of those bastard Ruins and another scissor-wielding Doll Girl. "Ugh, can't even _try_ for a bit of levity. . . ."

She landed with an "oof" on the patchwork fabric, then turned in a slow circle, shrinking twice as she did. No – no almost-invisible purple platforms hanging in midair, no snuffling pig snouts tucked into random corners, no rancid cakes or muffins stacked next to the block towers dotting the place. She'd officially collected everything there was to collect. _Time to investigate the_ _tu_ _r_ _quoise and pink_ _dollhouse_ _,_ _then,_ Alice decided, turning her steps to the right. _Considering it popped open once I finished off that Menacing Ruin, it must have something important in it._ She bounced off the edge of the platform, trying to ignore the way the nearest steam-venting house seemed to be trying to peer down her dress (why oh _why_ did everything in this world either have too many eyes or too few?), twirled to gain a little extra height, then hit the stairs and started up.

The first set of steps terminated in a landing of interlocked puzzle pieces painted a uniform blue, with a gap between it and the set that actually led to the second story – likely to be filled once the wall closed up again. For now, though, Alice could clearly see the floor below, in all its rather unassuming glory. More piled blocks sporting pictures of ears and eyes (this part of Wonderland wouldn't recognize 'subtle' if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a harpsichord), a trio of worm-riddled cakes, a suspicious patch of grass in the corner that would no doubt spring forth a bouncy mushroom once she completed one of Wonderland's arbitrary tasks –

And a crystal butterfly, revolving quietly near one of the windows. "Victor!" Alice immediately abandoned her climb in favor of dropping to the worn boards and seizing the creature in both hands. She might have briefly considered leaving such memories behind in favor of speed in Queensland, but now she knew better than to neglect a single one. Besides, friendly voices here were not a luxury – they were a necessity.

_"You can't save the world," Alice told him, not without sympathy. "No matter how rich you are. And even if you were to give all these people a good home and a hot meal every day, some of them would still be monsters and maniacs. You've said yourself some of the nastiest people you've ever known were also some of the richest." Victor nodded reluctantly. "People like you are much fewer than they ought to be, Victor. I'd love to be able to change the world too – to make it so no one has to suffer again. But I've seen enough of reality – and fantasy, honestly–" she added, thinking of the wreck Wonderland had become "– to know that there's always going to be suffering. Always going to be villains lurking the streets. All you can do is look out for yourself, and perhaps try and make a little difference here and there." Knowing what would cheer him up, she added, "You managed to send someone to Heaven, or whatever passes for it. That has to count for something, right?"_

_Sure enough, Victor smiled. "I would hope so." Then his anxious expression returned as he fiddled some more with his fingers. "Still, speaking about how people treat others. . .maybe I'm being oversensitive, but I don't exactly approve of the way Dr. Bumby handles the children. Those paper placards are still a complete mystery to me."_

_"He's said that it's for identification purposes – that when he has to discuss the child with a colleague, he can give them a modicum of privacy," Alice said. "What's mysterious about that?"_

_"Fair enough, but. . . **why make them wear**_ **numbers** _**? That just seems so – dehumanizing. Surely some sort of fake name would be better?** Or even letters?" Victor frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Unless it has something to do with their ages. . .of course, when I ask most of them what theirs is, they don't seem to recall."_

Well. It seemed Wonderland was determined to hit her where it hurt when it came to how blind she'd been during her months at Houndsditch. Not that she didn't deserve it, of course. . .had she really _reassured_ Victor when he'd brought that up? Told him that the numbers weren't important? That some of the strange things Bumby said or did didn't actually matter in the long run? That the important thing was that he was helping the children to forget their painful pasts and find new homes? Guilt gurgled up Alice's throat like burning bile. _You saw it before I did,_ she thought, closing her eyes against the shame. _Or, at least, you were willing to acknowledge it before I did. And what was my response? To do exactly what Bumby's been doing_ _to me_ _all along and turn you away from the truth! How could I have been such a fool?_

By being too scared of what might happen if she wasn't, that was how. Much as she liked to think of her release from Rutledge as a triumphant march back into regular life, that hadn't truly been the case. She had conquered the worst of her insanity, yes, but even as she'd strode proudly through those creaky gates, her grip on reality had been distressingly shaky. Even gaining Victor as a friend hadn't done as much as either of them would have liked to bolster it up. _As ably demonstrated by the fact that I'm here at all,_ she thought, opening her eyes and looking around with a grimace. Oh, she'd known Dr. Bumby was a bit creepy, but some of his more disturbing behaviors. . .was there anything more awful than not being able to trust the evidence of your senses? Of worrying that if you spoke up at the wrong moment, or accused him of something no one but you had seen, you'd be thrown back into the clutches of David, Lum, and Cratchet? Better to wear blinders than ever risk _that_. Plus, after realizing Dr. Wilson genuinely had not meant her harm despite some of his more dubious therapies, she'd met with embarrassment any suspicions about Dr. Bumby. Not trusting doctors had seemed like a flaw, something to be conquered if she ever wanted to get better. She hadn't wanted to deal with the possibility that Bumby wasn't what he said he was – hadn't been _able_ to deal with it. And she'd _wanted_ to trust him, wanted to forget, wanted to escape the horrors of her past. . . .

_But you can't do that, can you?_ she thought, running her fingers through her hair. _The faster you try to run away from your history, the faster it catches up with you._ _And now I'm practically drowning in it, no good to anyone_ _. Even myself._ She bit her lip, rocking back and forth on her heels. _I could have done so much more, so much_ good _. If I hadn't kept obsessing over my own pain and occasionally looked at someone else's. . .if I'd taken a moment to listen,_ really _listen to Victor and his concerns. . .if I'd worked harder to remember, rather than forget. . . ._ _"It's well know that_ _he who eats with the devil must have a very long spoon."_ _Nanny, dear, c_ _learly mine wasn't long enough. Oh, if only I could go back and smack some sense into my younger self!_

But the past was the past, and she knew of no way to change it. Alice turned her gaze to the ceiling far above, the rafters rotted enough to expose a glimpse of the sky. No time to waste on "what ifs" now – Wonderland was in its gravest peril yet. And who knew how long it would take her to navigate the whole of the Dollhouse. Every step forward seemed to require at least two or three back. . .how was one supposed to progress like this? _I have to get through – I have to get back to the Home! I have to make sure Reggie and Abigail and Elsie and Charlie and – and Victor. . . ._

God, she missed him. She missed the feel of his fingers twined with hers, the sparkle in those deep brown eyes when he laughed, the warm reassuring beat of his heart in her ear. He'd become an essential part of her well-being, and now. . . . _"He'll take a shortcut if you're not careful"_ – funny how such a simple sentence could give her such a bad case of the chills. It wasn't just Bumby's attitudes toward the children that she'd dismissed as unimportant, after all. _"_ _The proofs are legion! Every creature_ _has a purpose,"_ echoed in her memory as the psychiatrist's glasses glinted in her peripheral vision. _"It is_ _my sacred duty_ _to fit every young person to a calling, be it for ornament or use_ _."_ Was Victor intended as an ornament – or was Bumby going to _use_ him? Alice shuddered. For all that Wonderland was nearly getting her killed every so often in reality, it had at least gotten her away from the bastard, minimizing the damage he was doing to her brain. Was he taking out his frustrated efforts on her beloved in her absence? Were her fears about finding Victor pinned to the wall like that poor bleeding butterfly more real that not?

_Calm down,_ she told herself, taking a deep breath. _You'll be of no help to anyone if you're a nervous wreck. Victor's smart. He knows how to handle himself. He's got to be all right._ She attacked the cakes with her Vorpal Blade, hacking them into tiny bits to relieve her feelings. _Besides, he has all the advantages I don't – parents, money, and a past he doesn't want to forget. What could Bumby do to him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice's comment about the Dollhouse not recognizing subtle "if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a harpsichord" is a paraphrase of one of Lord Blackadder's lines from "A Blackadder Christmas Carol" (talking about how Baldrick wouldn't recognize a subtle plan if it did that while singing "Subtle plans are here again!")


	22. I'm In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from the song "In The Dark" by "The Birthday Massacre." I actually highly recommend you listen to it at some point, because it fits this chapter and Victor's situation perfectly.

October 29th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:37 P.M.

_Oooooh, my head. . .what – what happened? Where am I?_

One thing was for certain – this was the coldest floor he'd ever touched. Victor eased himself into a sitting position, wincing as stiff muscles protested. How long had he been lying there, utterly insensible? _Can't be that long – my skull still feels as if Bumby cracked it in two._ He touched the back of his head gingerly and hissed as his fingers found the bruise. Nope – not a good idea to move too much yet. _At least_ _I can be sure I'm not in Rutledge_ _,_ he thought. _David and Lum would have never passed up the chance for a rude comment_ _._ _Small mercy. . .but then where has Dr. Bumby dragged me off to?_ Ignoring his brain's objections, he opened his eyes –

Only to be confronted with the same blackness he'd seen when he'd had them closed.

Victor blinked, then blinked again to confirm that yes, his eyelids were working as normal. He twisted his head left and right, heedless of how seasick the action made him. Darkness yawned up on either side, all-consuming, like the deepest, most remote corners of the ocean. _No – no no no –_ His hand shot up before his face, but only the fact that he could feel it attached to him let him know it was actually there. It took pressing the appendage against his nose to discern even the slightest outline of his fingers – and Victor wasn't entirely sure he wasn't imagining them. If someone were to come along and lop his arm off at the elbow – oh God he could almost feel the blade against his skin already. . .he jerked his hand against his chest as his breathing quickened. _How can it be this dark? Have I gone blind? Please not that please I'll be completely mad before an hour's up. . .calm down, Victor. You have to figure out where you are. You have to stand up and – and maybe there isn't something lurking in the dark, I can't see it but I know it's here for me – no! Don't panic, it's going to be all right. . .maybe. . .oh God, light, I need light_ –

"You're afraid of the dark, aren't you?"

Victor nearly jumped right out of his skin. Oh damn – that was the _last_ voice he wanted to hear right now. Especially when he didn't know where it was coming from. He curled up protectively, pressing his legs into his chest. "Hardly," he lied, doing his best to project an air of nonchalance. "After that joke of a session you forced me through, I–"

"I remember that appointment as well as you do, Master Van Dort," Bumby cut him off. "You shot out of my office faster than a human cannonball – and with far less composure. I suppose I can't blame you, though – we _did_ plumb the absolute depths of your fears that day, didn't we? Or, at least, I did. You tried to fight me off – and failed, as usual. That's how I know you're terrified. You know there's no protection from the dark – nothing you can use to defend yourself, no words to soothe it, no way to run from it. Nothing you can go and hide behind, you sniveling coward."

Anger welled up in him, providing a brief shield against the panic nipping at his brain. "I'm not a coward!" Victor protested, eyebrows low. Nearly taking a sword through the ribcage for Victoria _had_ to disqualify him from that title. "I–"

"You are indeed a coward," Bumby interrupted again, unruffled. "Always running off, hiding away, leaving others to deal with your mistakes. . .it's hardly surprising that no one likes you."

"That's not true!"

"Oh yes it is," Bumby replied, tone darkly pleased. "You know deep down that no one _really_ gives a damn about you. Certainly not your parents. They were only too happy to put you in my care, weren't they? Absolutely relieved to be free of their mad disappointment of a son. They're probably hoping you never come home."

"They do no–"

_"Sometimes I think the real reason I'm here is because they wanted to get r-rid of me. . . ."_

The words died in Victor's mouth. How often had Mother and Father actually written to him while he was here? How often had they asked how he was, what he was up to, if he was happy? How many letters had been nothing but threats and cajoling to accept Bumby's therapy and stop being nonsensical – stop being him? _I know we live in the middle of nowhere, but. . .they didn't even get one out in time for my birthday. . . ._

But he couldn't let Bumby think he'd gained the upper hand already. "You don't know that for sure," he replied at last, voice as firm as he could make it.

"Master Van Dort, I'm a psychiatrist," Bumby said, voice smooth as silk. "It's my _job_ to read people – to understand them better than they understand themselves. And you forget we had a nice little chat before you moved in. I didn't see much desire to actually have you cured. They just wanted you out of the way – particularly your mother. The way she spoke of your failures on the social stage. . .she's never been proud of you, not once. I'd venture to say she hates you, but that would imply she cares about you at all. It's more accurate to state she's utterly apathetic to your existence unless you're helping her or hindering her. And you seem to hinder her quite a lot, don't you? Always ruining her grand plans. . . it's a wonder she hasn't disowned you long before now. And your father. . . ." He chuckled softly. "Well, there's nothing on _his_ mind but fish. I'm surprised he remembers he has a son. And every time you remind him, he's so disappointed that that son is you. . . ."

"Stop it!" Victor cried, jerking his head around almost in a full circle before the pain forced him to stop. Where was the bastard? His voice kept moving, and it was impossible to see in this encircling, choking, suffocating dark. . . . Victor closed his eyes again and forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. _Relax. Relax. It's not like you've been dropped off the edge of the world, with your lungs shriveling from lack of – you are breathing right now, you idiot, and it's probably masking his footsteps and he's going to tear your throat open with the cleaver he borrowed from Splatter_ –

"They never loved you," Bumby continued, and Victor was almost relieved to hear him speak. "Never cared enough about you to even properly hate you. Well, except when you foiled their attempts to get into high society. For that I'm sure they loathe you. Not like you would have lasted long in those circles, though. Everyone would have despised you on sight."

"Then. . .then it's a good thing I've never cared about high society," Victor responded, massaging his temples to relieve the ache. _Don't let him see he's getting to you. Stay strong._

"Don't you? You cared about one person from it. But she didn't care about you, did she? Oh no – she _left_ you."

"Victoria? That wasn't her fault, her parents–"

"Oh, I'm sure she told you some sob story to spare your feelings," Bumby said carelessly. "A waste, in my opinion – what feelings do you have to spare? But I'm positive she was happy to leave you behind. Someone like you wasn't worthy of her attentions in the first place."

"That's not true!" Victor snapped, hackles rising. Good, anger was a good thing, anger would defend him against the fangs and claws lurking in this eternal shadow –

"She got married again awfully quick, didn't she?" Bumby shot back. "After she left – or was taken away, as you insist on putting it. Foolish boy, to ignore the evidence of your own senses. But the fact remains that you lost her to someone else. Someone older, wiser, handsomer, braver, kinder, smarter. . . ."

"Stop! She thought I was _dead_!" Victor snarled, although some tiny part of him whispered, _and didn't do much to confirm or deny that, did she?_ "She moved on, just as I did when I thought I'd lost her! There's nothing wrong with Mr. White! Victoria loves him!"

"Indeed!" Bumby cried, triumphant. "She loves _him_. She never loved you."

"I – she–" _"And Christopher. . .he and I. . .we can talk, we can laugh. . .he's my dearest friend on top of being my husband. . .I can't say I'm sorry to have married him. . . ."_ All those shared smiles, casual touches, easy laughs. . .could he have ever coaxed those out of her? They'd had a nice moment at the piano, but – that had been before a three-hour mess of a rehearsal, and a dead woman claiming to be his wife. And what had she said when he'd asked her why she hadn't run away from Barkis? _"I didn't want – my parents so desperately needed the money. . . ."_ More than he'd needed someone looking for him? "She cared. . . ." he insisted, though it felt like he was trying to convince himself more than Bumby.

"No she didn't. She was just trying to make the best of a bad situation," Bumby said, pure confidence. "Look at you. She must have hated you on sight. You weak, whining, loathsome little maggot of a – no, you're not a man. You're barely a boy."

"You – you have no right to say such things," Victor growled, starting to get to his feet. His head was still killing him, but damn it, he wasn't going to just sit here and listen to this litany of his faults. He was the swell who'd slugged Jack Splatter! He _had_ to be better than this! _If I can just find a wall, or a piece of furniture, or anything. . .I'll probably run right into it and bark my shins, but that would be a small price to pay for – for not feeling like I'm stuck in this vast endless_ void _squeezing me empty with no one here except that_ voice. . . _easy, Victor, easy. I_ _f I can find him maybe I can shut him up and then – then I'll be all alone for sure lost in the black just waiting for the next voice to take his place – no, Victor, don't think about that, think about how there has to be an exit that I'll never see I'll be ripped to pieces first – stop! You've survived far worse than this! It's just darkness, it – it can't – oh God I don't want to be here anymore. . .which is why you have to get up and get moving, have to get away from this beast –_

"I have every right. I know you all too well, Victor Van Dort. I know just how weak and _worthless_ you really are."

The word hit him like a slap to the face. Victor froze halfway up. "I'm – I'm not worthless!"

"Oh?" Bumby's tone turned questioning. "Then why did even a _dead_ woman reject you?"

"Emily didn't–"

"She left, didn't she?" Bumby interjected. "You were prepared to _die_ for her, to give up whatever passes for a life with you, and she stopped you. Told you no. Said you weren't hers. Doesn't it hurt to know she never loved you in the first place?"

"She tried to drag me straight into her grave when we first met!"

"True – but she would have done the same to anyone else whom she'd thought proposed," Bumby countered. "You yourself told me the song – 'Always waiting for someone to ask for her hand.' Not any specific someone, just _someone_. And after all that time, who comes along? Poor dear – she must have been horrified to rise and find _you_ looking back at her."

"That's – she – we–" Victor stopped, at a loss. Bumby had a point – Emily had been willing to accept _any_ offer that sounded right, not just his – no! The doctor was twisting things around on him! Just like he had with Victoria ( _who left me anyway_ )! "She cared, I know she did. . . ."

"She hated you like everyone else," Bumby replied casually. "Wondering what she had done to deserve such an awful husband after who knows how long dead. Turning into butterflies, losing whatever remained of her soul, was a preferable fate to marrying you, after all."

"We'd just avenged her murder!" Victor snapped. "She was ready to move on!"

"To where?"

Victor didn't have an answer to that. Bumby chuckled. "She killed herself – suffered death a second, more final time – just to get away from _you_."

"N-no. . . ." Victor swallowed down the tremor in his voice. He'd faced Barkis without stuttering; he could do the same with Bumby, even in this – this devouring, tearing black – He shook his head hard, letting the pain center him. "No," he repeated, stronger. "She's gone on to something better. I know it. And the only reason she left was because she couldn't bear to steal Victoria's dreams from her. She wanted us to be happy together!"

"But you're not, are you? Pity her sacrifice meant nothing in the end. Of course, I doubt it was a sacrifice at all. She must have seen foisting you back on poor Miss Everglot as the best way of getting rid of you."

"That's not true!"

"How do you know, Master Van Dort? How do you know for sure?"

Victor sank back down onto the floor, stomach churning. He could feel an audience of invisible eyes boring into him, nodding along with Bumby's words, whispering comments like _You know you're not good enough for anyone_ and _They all run away in the end._ He pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying desperately to ignore them. God, if only he could _see_. . . . "Because – because she was enthusiastic, and welcoming, and kind," he whispered, remembering a spirited duet at a coffin piano, a wedding present of an old dead friend dumped in his lap, a glowing smile marching up the church aisle. "She would never hurt anyone like that. She saved us both from Barkis!"

"Only because it was preferable to spending her afterlife with _you_. Didn't you tell me during a session that she rejected the idea of marrying you for good when it was first brought up?"

"Because it involved drinking poison! She didn't want to murder me!"

"So?" Bumby snorted. "She was the corpse bride, wasn't she? Didn't she drag you down to the underworld against your will? Shouldn't she have been jumping for joy at the prospect of killing you so you could be together forever?"

_A click of bone against metal. . .teary eyes looking up at him. . .a whisper from one of the left pews: "She's having second thoughts. . ." And then the words "I can't," and – and why would she do this to him, why push him away so soon after Victoria had thrown him over – not even the_ dead _wanted him?_

Victor stared into the endless black as the invisible crowd snickered. When he'd overheard her and Elder Gutknecht in the kitchen. . .why _hadn't_ she wanted him to stay with her forever? All of the dead had seemed so happy and carefree. . . .Why _couldn't_ she ask him to drink the Wine of Ages?

_Because she didn't want to be the same as the monster who killed her!_ an inner voice shouted. _He's getting to you, Victor! You know damn well Emily could have never borne the guilt of stealing your life! She wanted you to move on – to enjoy all the things she couldn't!_ _And Victoria wants the same – don't you remember how happy she was when you told her how you felt about Alice? Yes, because I was most definitely not her problem anymore after that – no!_ _Don't listen to him! Fight back!_ He pressed hard on his temples, trying to find his anger again. "It – it doesn't matter," he said. "It doesn't matter in the slightest. Emily's ascended, and Victoria is happy with someone else, and I'm f-fine with that!" _Damn it_ _, why did I have to stutter there. . . ._

"Are you? It doesn't hurt to know you were rejected by the first two women you ever loved? Two women you could have had a happy, fulfilling life – or afterlife – with? One right after the other?"

"Stop it!" Victor turned on his spot, squinting into the gloom in a desperate bid to find the psychiatrist's form. For a split-second, he thought he made out something like an arm – but then it transformed into a foot-long fang, and then the mouth closed over him, and he was in the creature's belly, acid washing at his flesh, skin sloughing off muscle, muscle sloughing off bone. . . . He choked back his scream and pressed his hands against his face. _You're fine, you're fine, f_ _ocus, focus. . . ._ "If you're trying to get me to forget what I saw in that a-appalling journal of yours, it's not working!"

"She'll never love you, you know."

Bumby's voice came from behind him this time, right by his ear. Victor whirled and lunged for where he guessed the man's head was, but the doctor was faster and stepped out of range. The audience snickered again as he landed hard on the boards. "What–"

"Alice will never love you," Bumby continued, and now he sounded amused. "She's incapable of loving anyone. Ever since her family died, she's become as cold as ice."

"Flam and slum!" _There_ was his rage! Victor wrapped it around himself, snarling into the void. "She's been nothing but kind to me!"

"That's just part of her job, Master Van Dort," Bumby replied, false pity dripping off his words. "She doesn't actually care the slightest bit about you. It's pathetic, really, that you've fallen in love with her. Perhaps it's a habit of yours, falling in love with women who will never return your affections. A psychological disorder of sorts. Oh, but how can it be a disorder when no woman on this earth – or below it – could possibly love you?"

_They all leave they all leave they all leave,_ the invisible chorus chanted, each word like another knife in his heart. "It d-doesn't matter if she loves me or not!" Victor declared, remembering the diary and pulling the rage even tighter against him. "I won't let you have her!"

" _You_ won't let _me_?" Another snort. "Be serious, Master Van Dort. What could you do to stop me? She'll come to me or go back to the asylum. And you won't be able to act either way. Because I am a respected doctor, and you – you're _nothing._ You're _worthless._ "

_Swell madman necrophiliac –_ Victor shoved the words away. "I'm someone with very rich parents–"

"Who don't give a damn about you. Who do you think they're going to believe? The lunatic spouting stories of the afterlife or the respected social scientist? It'll be the same with the police. The same with _Alice herself_. Everyone will just laugh at you – if they even pay you _that_ much attention. No one cares about you, Master Van Dort. No one wants to be bothered with you. No one loves you, or even likes you. You are _alone_ in the world." Bumby leaned in again. "You are a _bad boy_."

Victor knew he should be trying to grab Bumby, trying to escape, trying to do _something_ – but he couldn't bring himself to move. If he moved, the monsters would get him, the audience kick him back into place, jeering all the while. . . _Bad boy bad boy bad boy –_ He swallowed again, but this time it didn't help the tremor in his voice at all. "I'm n-not. . . ."

"Yes you _are_. You are weak, and cowardly, and without any redeeming qualities. You barely qualify as human. Everyone who has been afflicted with your presence has hated every moment, and praised God for His deliverance the instant you left. You do nothing but cause others misery and pain." Bumby's breath fell hot in his ear. "Did you ever think that maybe it's _you_ who is causing Alice to slip back into her insanity?" the psychiatrist whispered. "Your tales of the afterlife muddling her mind, making it harder for her to tell the difference between reality and fantasy?"

Victor's breath caught in horror. Oh God, was that true? Had he been hurting Alice all along? Had he made her life even more – _he lies he lies don't listen to him_ –

"You repulse her," Bumby added with relish. "All those times you've grabbed her shoulder, held her hand, dared even to _hug_ her. . .you know she hates to be touched, and yet you practically _force_ yourself on her! She must consider the feel of _your_ papery skin to be the worst of all. And all those moments praising Victoria and Emily, trying to buy her affection with gifts, interrupting her work and encouraging her madness. . .did you ever _really_ think you had a chance with her?"

_"Because she'd never feel the same way. I made a horrible first impression on her – I'm still a bit surprised we ended up being such good friends. And – and she's so strong, so determined, so – so vital – Why would she_ ever _want someone like me?"_

Victor squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold back the tears. Already he could imagine the shocked, maybe even disgusted look on her face, those brilliant green eyes burning with hate: _"You_ what _? Oh no no no – this is what I get for thinking you might not be like the others! For thinking that maybe you were interested in something_ other _than my body! Get away from me, you trasseno!"_ And then she'd turn on her heel and walk off in a huff, vanishing back into the streets, never to be seen again and he'd swear that his heart was ripping in two. . . .

But he'd be damned if he told Bumby that ( _except he already seemed to know. . ._ ). "Y-you're going to hurt her," he whispered, moving his head away from that cloying breath. "Like you hurt those p-poor children. . . ."

"You actually care about the brats? They don't care about you, I can assure you of that. But as nothing in this world does, I don't think that's much of a surprise, is it? As for what I'm doing with them. . . ." Bumby walked away again. "I'm giving them a purpose. I'm giving them a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and a way to earn their keep. Is that really so wrong?"

"Yes!" Victor shouted, the rage returning and bolstering him up. "You're – you're s-selling them to these–"

"I provide a service," Bumby said smoothly. "In the great and awful metropolis appetites of all sorts must be gratified. And those children aren't doing anyone any good just lazing around. You should know that better than most. _You're_ certainly not doing anyone any good."

"It's _wrong_! _Sick_! And – and w-what you want to do to Alice–"

"I'm aware pursuing that route means the loss of a decent maid, but. . . ." The bastard had the audacity to _snicker_. "Well, I think Alice can earn her keep much better in that profession, don't you? Not to mention provide me with some small gratification. Or large gratification, depending on how well she learns her role." He sighed. "She looks so much like her lovely sister. . .you remind me of her too, actually."

Victor blinked, confusion conquering both fear and anger for a moment. ". . .Beg pardon?"

"Elizabeth Liddell. I was acquainted with her during my university days. She was a horrid tease, _flaunting_ herself at me while simultaneously rejecting my affections. Like the way you continually rejected my attempts to reshape your mind." Bumby growled, low and dangerous, like a pit-fighting dog. "I dislike being rejected, Master Van Dort. I dislike it quite a bit."

Ice filled Victor's stomach. _Oh no. . .could – could it be?_ "What did you do to her sister?" he whispered.

"Nothing that concerns you," Bumby snapped. "Of course, _nothing_ in general concerns you. Do you really think you can help anyone, Master Van Dort? Do you honestly believe you can play the hero?" Cruel laughter echoed around him. "A more ridiculous notion I've never heard. You're a _wreck_ , Van Dort. A bumbling, sniveling, disgusting accident waiting to happen. You couldn't help anyone even if they wanted your help. And they don't, because they know that. Because they know you fail at whatever you set out to do. Three hours without learning a few simple vows, a month to fail at retrieving your bride-to-be, half a year and still stuck in the depths of Whitechapel. The slightest tasks are beyond your grasp. You're nothing – nothing but an abject failure, a mistake, a blot upon the surface of the earth."

_Should never have been let out of his room,_ the onlookers hidden in the black agreed. _Should have dashed his head open on the floor when he was born. Would have been better for everyone._ "No. . .no, I'm–"

"A _bad boy_ , Victor. You know deep in your heart that's all you are – all you'll ever be. A bad boy loved by no one. Rejected by all. Left to rot in the dark like you deserve."

Victor made another weak attempt to stand, but his legs were trembling too badly to support him. _Useless,_ the invisible chorus hissed. _Useless stupid worthless bad – don't deserve happiness don't deserve anything –_ He tried to turn away, but the nightmares nipped at his heels, ready to tear him apart once he was ripe – _Shut up shut up wake up_ wake _up –_ "It's n-not true. . . ." he got out, trying to cling to the last shreds of his fury. They slipped through his fingers – yet another thing he'd failed at. . . .

"It _is_ true," Bumby insisted, putting all the weight of his degree, his will, behind the words. "You are a _waste of space_. Utterly unneeded – and unlovable. No one can stand you, least of all the women you profess to love. Why, I'm sure that if you told Alice that you loved her, she'd laugh in your face. And then slap you, for daring to think you could possibly earn her affections. And you'd deserve it too. You're not even worthy of the love of a madwoman." He stepped closer, a king ready to tread on an ant. "You. Are. _Worthless_. You. Are. _Bad._ "

_Bad bad_ _BAD –_ Victor wrapped his arms around himself, water pricking at his eyes. Why wouldn't Bumby be still? He – he already _knew_ all of this, the doctor didn't have to keep _harping_ on it. . . . "S-stop. . .p-please. . ."

"How dare you think you have the right to be around humans as an equal?" Bumby continued, the adoring audience cheering him on. "You're not an equal. You're not even subordinate. You are _nothing_. Absolutely and totally nothing. Not even worth the time I'm spending on you."

"N-no. . .I–"

"Why try to deny it? Everyone leaves you, don't they? Your parents, your fiancee, your _corpse bride_. . .even Alice. Everyone leaves. You're not good enough for anyone. You're trash. Only there to be thrown away."

"P-p-please stop. . .n-not true. . . ." Victor whispered, but he didn't really believe it anymore. The words just kept pounding on his mind, his heart, a heavy tide of inevitability. . . . _Stay strong. Stay strong for Alice. She needs you – no she doesn't you're a weak ninny and you don't deserve her – no no don't listen –_

"Oh, but it is, Master Van – no. Someone, some _thing_ so utterly without value doesn't deserve to be called that. You don't deserve a name."

"I–"

"YOU DON'T DESERVE A NAME. You don't deserve anything. You're weak – worthless – _nothing_. A being without purpose. A failure in the eyes of everyone." A candle suddenly flared into light, revealing Bumby's face not far from his own, glasses shining eerily as he looked at Victor with utter disdain. "Who could love this? Who could love _you_?"

Victor dropped his head, tears trickling down his face. The hounds were baying in hellish glee while the chorus drew the dark even tighter around, crushing him, choking him. . . _weak worthless unloved unneeded should have killed himself should have rotted away to nothing_ _ **she'll never love you**_ _. . . ._ He bit back a sob. Why had he bothered, why did he ever bother, no one wanted him around. . . . "P-please. . . ."

"LOOK AT ME." Victor's head snapped back up, and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes away from those blank white lenses. He was paralyzed, a mouse before the snake. "You are NOTHING," Bumby reiterated. "Nothing – without me. I'll give you a purpose. I'll take care of you. You're going to be mine – _Thirteen_."

It was so hard to think now, so hard to get his mind around anything but Bumby's words, but somehow he managed to say, "My n-name's Victor. . . ."

" _Bad boy,_ " Bumby hissed, and _that_ was the verbal equivalent of being shoved face-first into a brick wall. "How many times must I tell you you don't deserve a name? You are nothing – nothing but a toy. The only things of use on you are those lips and that arse. I'd add your cock to the list, but I prefer to do the buggering if there's any to be done. Besides, toys don't need to feel pleasure. They're just there to be used. _You're_ just here to be used."

"No." The sound was so little, Victor wasn't sure if he'd said it or not. He wasn't just here to be used, he wasn't, he wasn't –

"Yes. If you want to be a good boy, you'll do as I say. You'll be who I say. And I say you're a toy."

No – no, he wasn't –

"You are nothing. No one will miss you. No one will care that you're gone. It'll be like you never existed. You only exist for me. You are only here for my pleasure."

He w-wasn't –

"You don't deserve a name. Say it."

He – he w-w-wa–

" _Say it._ 'I don't deserve a name.'"

"I – I–"

He – he just wanted the pain to stop.

"I don't deserve a name. . . ."

 


	23. Childhood Is Definitely Dead Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning -- a bit of disturbing imagery at the end of the chapter! Nothing explicit, but it involves the Dollmaker and what happened at the end of this chapter in the game. . .

The Dollhouse Cellars

_Eugh. . .on the one hand, part of me's glad this horrible place has finally stopped pretending to be cheerful. On the other hand, the other part hates it a little more for giving up the facade._

The eye on the shelf before her blinked, floating aimlessly in its glass prison. Nearby, a brain in a marble pulsed in a steady one, two, one-two-three pattern, and something which Alice couldn't identify but was willing to call a spleen bobbed in a sea of preserving fluid. She grimaced and turned away. _I expected a splash of color or two, at the very least,_ she thought, gazing at the worn, unpainted squares of wood surrounding her, studded all along their edges with rusty nails, no two pieces quite matching. _Even after having to slide down a chute of cracked glass, mindful every moment that if any piece were missing, I'd find myself with a dozen sharp screws puncturing my bustle. This all looks so – unfinished. If not for the architect's taste in artwork, I'd think I'd fallen into an entirely new part of Wonderland under construction._ She shuddered. _At least there's no dolls to be seen right now. . .I'm never going to be comfortable in a toy shop again._

It was truly amazing just how many ways innocent playthings could be perverted, she'd discovered. The Doll Girls and Bitch Babies (Mother would scold her terribly, but anything that spat toxic green slime at you was definitely a bitch) from the upper levels were just the tip of the iceberg. Down here, you could turn a corner and be confronted with a naked porcelain body strung upside-down with razor wire, legs pulled wide and face smashed to reveal the emptiness within. Or peer through a scratched pane of glass upon a candle whose wax drowned a set of triplet dolls, their pained faces screaming for help through the gooey white. Or be forced to open a doorway via pulling a lever set into a living brain, while the busted skull of its owner watched from a bath of bubbling formaldehyde, spine dangling from the severed neck. And there were stranger creatures too – the heads of birds jabbed onto the skeletal feet of men, beetles crafted from old ribcages, and lungs which had sprouted kraken tentacles. Nothing that had attacked her yet, but she wasn't about to drop her guard anytime soon. Even reducing herself to the size of a mouse provided no relief – in those spaces the Dollmaker had left blank, purple crayon sketched images of a taloned hand on marionette strings, the blank eyeless visages of the Doll Girls, and of course the Infernal Train. _I'd have nightmares if I weren't already_ living _one. Come on, Alice, just keep moving forward. . . ._

She shattered a cracked porcelain head for its teeth, took out the trio of Drifting Ruin that came to harry her ( _For all his sick creativity when it comes to statuary, he doesn't have much imagination for his troops. Then again, do I_ want _more variations of these loathsome things to fight?_ ), then considered her next move. Directly in front was the next ramshackle construction of the cellars, but another stygian abyss yawned wide before her, keeping her from reaching the higher platforms with just a simple jump. However, all was far from lost – as usual for these situations, two weights of steel and glass were suspended within the gloom, just waiting to be set in the right position. Today, these were joined by a couple of panels supported by thick chains, forming a "staircase" toward the rightmost weight, and a pair of steam vents – fashioned from rabbit skulls and pipes designed to look like top hats. Alice glared at them. "Ha ha – when we meet at last, you're losing a tooth just for that," she growled. "Hmph. . .all right, so how do we do this. . . ."

A faint glitter on the left caught her eye, distracting her from the problem. Alice squinted into the dark to see another rough hunk of unfinished floor hanging from the ceiling, a crystal _something_ revolving on it. A quick jump revealed it was a house. "What on _earth_ is one of you doing down here? Unless – unless you're the one that finally provides me the proof I need to send this bastard to gaol for the rest of his unnatural life!"

Hope filled her tired blood with new vigor. She darted right, tossed a bomb, then shot left, hopping lightly from the raised weight to the heavy block that served as floor for the next bit. She took a moment to orient herself (and ah, yes, if she dropped the Clockwork Bomb over the side once she was done here, raising the other weight. . .not such a puzzle after all), then dashed over to the tiny building, reaching it with an eager twirl. Crossing her fingers, Alice hugged it to her chest.

_"I wish I could go to tea with the grown-ups like you, Lizzie."_

_"Oh no you don't," Lizzie replied, sweeping her brush through Alice's hair. "It's awful. You'd be bored stiff after five minutes."_

_"But tea parties are fun!" Alice protested. "I always have a good time when I visit Hare and Hatter, even if they_ don't _have any idea what proper conversation is."_

_"Neither do the people I take tea with, and they don't have the excuse of being mad as – well, hatters and hares," Lizzie said, unable to help a smile. "But really, Alice – your friends in Wonderland don't make you dress in your Sunday best, or force you to sit straight and stiff as a board, or keep you from eating and drinking as much as you'd like. And you actually_ want _to see them. I'd be happier if all our 'guests' found themselves at the bottom of a hole."_

_"But – they seem so important!" Alice said, squinching up her nose in pain as Lizzie encountered a tangle._

_"Important? Alice, which teas have_ you _been watching? The ones I've attended have been full of silly young men trying to make nice with their Dean so they don't get expelled." Lizzie rolled her eyes. "_ _ **All those undergraduates waiting for a word from Papa. 'Might I hold the tea cozy, Sir?' 'Might I pour, Sir?' Bunch of toadies.**_ _It's enough to make you sick to your stomach._ _" She_ _yanked the brush through the knot of hair_ _, making Alice wince. "Sorry. . .today was one of the worst. We had a new fellow – some idiot doing his doctorate in psychology – and he just would_ not _stop staring at me! I was half-convinced_ _he was simple_ _." She sighed. "Papa seemed awfully pleased by it, though. I hope he doesn't have some grand scheme of trying to pair me off with the man."_

_"Papa's not_ like that, Lizzie," Alice echoed her younger self as the memory dissolved around her. "And thank God! Marriage to Bumby. . . ." Oh, the very idea of it turned her stomach worse than the sight of someone's grey matter trapped in a marble. Alice tried to keep from picturing it, but her treacherous imagination raced ahead of her. Lizzie in the bridal white, dragged to the altar, stumbling over her vows to promise her life to a man she loathed. . .washing windows and dusting books, constantly waiting for her husband to sneak up behind her. . .handing him his plate at dinner and shivering as his clammy fingers stroked her skin. . .and then, in the bedroom, shining glass leaning over her as he slowly lifted the hem of her nightgown. . . . Alice pressed her hand against her mouth to keep in the sick. Poor Lizzie. It would have been a fate worse than death.

_On the other hand_ _–_ _she would have had the chance to run away too,_ some contrary voice inside her pointed out. _Flee one night into the wild blue yonder, as the Americans put it. You might not have ever seen her again, but at least you would have had the pleasure of knowing she'd gotten out of that hell – and maybe even found someone else whom she truly loved. What do you have now besides the assurance that_ _she woke up Downstairs_ _?_ _You don't know that she's making the best of a life cut short. It could be that she's still hiding in her room, slowly rotting away as she wonders what she did to deserve such a fate._

It was not fair. It was simply not fair. Her sister, a wonderful person – or, at least, pleasant enough if you weren't an Oxford undergraduate – had been forced into the Land of the Dead in the prime of her life, to be chewed by maggots and collapse slowly into dust, all hope of a future lost. And Bumby – Bumby, with his arrogant smirks and cold hands and inability to accept the word "no" – had not only snuffed out that precious life, he'd been _rewarded_ with a doctorate and his own practice! A practice which he now used to ruin the lives of others! Alice's fists clenched as she thought of how many children she'd seen pass through the Home during her brief year there – children who came begging for help and sanctuary, and left as hollow shells of themselves. Even the long-term residents, the stubborn, hard-to-cure cases like herself, were slowly having their identities, their very souls, chipped away. Charlie was getting extra sessions for his "trauma," Reggie was starting to play less and stare emptily at the wall more, and Abigail was so often dragged along on those "therapeutic trips. . . ." She stamped her foot to relieve her feelings. How could Bumby get away with it? How could anyone not see just what a wretched specimen of humanity he was?!

_"Really. No one thought that maybe, just maybe, this fellow who'd shown up out of nowhere, who was such a master of smarm, was up to no good."_

_Victor shrugged. "We brush_ _ed_ _it off as 'he's an aristocrat,' Alice. He fit in perfectly with the Everglots. I never thought he was_ nice _, but I also never would have guessed he was_ evil _."_

Ah yes – because the instant you had any sort of power, or pretended that you did, people became utterly blind to your faults. Walk and talk and smile like one of the old money, and no one would ever suspect you of being the bane of young brides laden with heavy dowries. Con your way into a degree and act like you were doing the poor a favor even as children vanished into the night, and everyone would laugh at your "eccentricities" and pour money into your coffers. She'd fallen victim to it too, hadn't she? Always wanting to believe the best of him just because he was a doctor?

_Well, the scales have fallen from my eyes, Bumby,_ she thought, leaping back over to the splintered block. _And I'll never be so dim as to let them grow back._ _Perhaps you covered your tracks well with my family, but I know you've got something somewhere that proves your guilt. I'll find out just where those children go once you're done with them. Just what lovely specimens of humanity takes them off your hands. And when I do. . . ._

But that was for the future – when she finally clawed her way out of this dark dream. She leaned over the edge of the wood and carefully tossed a Clockwork Bomb onto the weight below. _Time to see what fresh horrors wait on ahead. Hopefully they'll all be things I can wipe from existence._

* * *

 

_Down we go and – wait. Is this – am I seriously back at_ Fort Resistence _?!_

The click of green chalkboard beneath her heels assured her that she was. Alice scowled as she glared around the center of the Dollhouse. It looked exactly the same as it had when she'd first visited – they'd even repaired the fence in front of Frog's Way. _All that time running for my life, solving puzzle after senseless puzzle, and developing a distaste for dolls so deep I'll never be able to touch one again – and I end up_ right back where I started _?! What the hell was the point of_ _–_

_No. Oh please no. . . ._

Alice raced forward, puffs of purple chalk trailing in her wake. Things were _not_ the same as they'd been before. The doors of Fort Resistence were gone, smashed to splinters by some unknown force. The inside was dark, but Alice could make out a maze of blocks crisscrossing the sanctum – most sporting bright red stains, and one with a drill jabbed into its top right corner. Beyond that, though, there was no sign of the residents–

Save one, lying at the entrance in a pool of blood, her eyes torn from her skull. "Leader!"

To Alice's shock, the girl lifted her head. Despite everything, the brave little creature was clinging to a thread of life. She looked up at Alice with dark, empty sockets, body trembling with the effort. "They came," she whispered, her voice thin and reedy. "Dollgirls and Bitch Babies and all the Ruins. . .came for our spare parts. . .Thinker and Caged and Drillhead all gone. . . ."

Alice knelt by the little girl's side, tears welling up in her eyes (and it felt oddly unfair to be able to cry when this broken child would never get the chance again). "I'll get them back," she promised, running her fingers through Leader's hair, heedless of the red sticking to her flesh. As if blood held any horror when compared to all this. "I'll bring them back and I'll make the Dollmaker pay."

"Too late for them," Leader replied, and hacked. Alice could practically see the girl's soul flitting away from its shell. "Won't be nothing left when you get there."

"I'll make him pay regardless. No one else will suffer like you have."

The girl nodded, then grabbed Alice's hand in one convulsive movement. The young woman started as a sharp tingle like a static shock ran up her arm. "What–"

Leader's tattered lips curled in a last smile. "Fair's fair," she breathed. "You came and played. . . ."

And with that, she was gone, head falling to the boards with a very final thump. Alice stared at her hand as the little corpse turned blue. _"You want it for good, come visit us at our Fort"_ _–_ that's what Leader had said when Alice had summoned her to beg for her art skills back for Victor's birthday. And when she'd gone ahead and returned them for the night, the tiny electric snap Alice had felt back then – well, it was identical to the one she'd felt just now. Leader had made good on her promise.

_Which mean_ _s_ _it_ _'_ _s time for_ _me_ _to make good on_ _mine,_ Alice thought, lips set in a determined line as she rose to her feet. _So I've just traversed Frog's Way – what other paths lead from this place?_

A soft _shuft_ of pencils being withdrawn into the earth gave her a clue. She walked down the crimson-tainted ramp and turned left. A fresh gap in the fence there greeted her, revealing a path winding up a slight hill. A sign painted on a pointing doll's arm declared it to be "Snail's Trail." And just like its companion on the other side of the Fort, the entrance to said Trail led right through a doll's most private parts. This one was lying on its belly, bottom thrust up in apparent invitation, face staring back at her with black sockets like a grotesque parody of Leader's mutilated face. Alice grimaced, shaking her head. The Dollmaker certainly had a talent for turning her stomach.

But if he thought such crude imagery would turn her from her course, he'd sorely underestimated her. She jogged forward, eyes hard and sharp as steel. She was a hound on the hunt, and she was not going to rest until she had her fox. No matter how disgusting or dangerous the path, she would follow it to the end –

Or die trying.

* * *

For most of her trip through Wonderland, Alice's favorite thought had been that her mind was trying to kill her. After all, she had it on good authority that most people weren't forced into continual battles with mental monsters while wandering the streets in a dangerously deluded daze. Why would that be her experience if her brain didn't want her six feet under? Now, though, with her experiences in traversing the Dollhouse, she was pretty sure she'd had it back to front: something – or some _one_ – was trying to kill her mind.

_And he's getting pretty desperate about it too,_ she thought, deflecting another fiery projectile with the help of her parasol. The Menacing Ruin shrieked in rage and tried to charge her, only to find itself helpless before a simple gap in the floor. Alice smirked and took the opportunity to lace its body with peppercorns. _I mean, two Menacing Ruins and a Doll Girl? Almost right on the heels of a fight with a Colossal Ruin? Reeks of overkill. Surely just the Girl herself would have sufficed._

The Menacing Ruin screamed as its final face shattered, melting into a puddle of harmless goop. _Then again, considering I just slaughtered the lot of them_ _. . .oh, dearest doctor, if only I could inflict such a fate on you! Too bad my weapons can't make the jump from Wonderland to reality._ She pursed her lips contemplatively. _Although I suppose any old butcher's knife would do for the Vorpal Blade. . .but it just wouldn't be the same_ _._

Well, that was a thought for another time – she still had to find her way through the rest of this dollhouse. She'd never encountered one quite so large and well-furnished before – did that mean she was getting close to the Dollmaker's headquarters? She glanced over at the bloodstained bed on the opposite side of the room, and the crib sporting a ruby red mouth right behind where the Ruin had taken up residence. _Yes, I must be. Eugh. . .hopefully soon we'll come to the end of all this horror._

She chopped up a couple of cakes to refresh herself, then hopped over the hole that had so stymied the Ruin and blasted through the brittle barrier it had been protecting. Behind it was a bloody-eyed lever, twitching wildly and watching her every move. Trying to convince herself it was still better than the ones from the Cellar, she grabbed the pole and pulled.

The ceiling behind her creaked, flipping down to reveal a staircase of blocks. So she was expected on the second floor, then? Alice readied her Blade and hopped up the letters. _A. . .L. . .N. . .aaaaand_ – _Nothing?_

Alice blinked, disoriented. She'd thought for sure she would have been set upon by at least a roving gang of Slithering Ruin. But no – this room was empty of anything living. Shaking off her surprise, she investigated her surroundings. Another bed soiled with splashes of crimson. . .some shelving and a toy baby's carriage piled high with spare arms and legs. . .a doorway to another room on her far left. . .and on her right–

A toy piano.

The fury that shot through her veins was enough to make her wonder if she'd tripped an invisible Ragebox. It wasn't like the piano was anything horrible – despite being shoved under a square of bright red box shelves housing nine doll heads in varying states of decay, it was easily the brightest and cheeriest piece of furniture in the room. Alice had a feeling her younger self would have liked to have it as part of her collection, to plonk on as she pleased (instead of when Nanny pleased). And yet, the very sight of it made her want to break something with her Hobby Horse. Maybe it was that she knew Victor would be horrified to see his favorite instrument, however pleasant-looking, in a place like this. Maybe it was that finding a piano here brought back all the happy moments she'd spent with him at the keyboard of Houndsditch's upright and tried to pervert them into something painful.

Maybe it was simply that it reminded her that she still had no idea what was happening to her beloved in the real world.

The flame-eyed unicorn was in her hands almost before she'd decided to summon it. She marched up to the instrument with gritted teeth, ready to smash it into oblivion and claim whatever spoils dropped from the wreckage–

One of the doll heads moved.

Alice froze, Hobby Horse held in front of her in expectation of a trap. But there was no sudden flow of Ruin into the room, no telltale squeal of a Doll Girl ready to "play." The heads just noiselessly gasped for a minute, then returned to inertness. Alice stared at them, brow furrowed. Now what had that been for?

Her gaze caught something she hadn't noticed before – a series of striped pipes connecting shelves to piano. A curious hypothesis entered her head, and she pressed a key to test it.

The left top corner head's mouth flew open, releasing a discordant note. She pressed another, and the very center head spread its jaws to sing. Aha – a musical lock, just like back in the temple of the Origami Ants. Clearly there was some door she hadn't seen that required a melody before it would spring open. Alice dismissed the Horse and ran her fingers over the keyboard, memorizing which notes linked to which mouth, then looked up at the heads. "When you're ready."

The jaws opened and closed obligingly, and Alice copied them on the keys once they were done. The song that resulted wasn't precisely pretty, but it sounded a lot better than she had expected. A second game of mimed Simon Says followed, then a third. Alice giggled as she completed the final tune. _Why, I'm practically ready for Carnegie Hall!_ _Of course, Victor would have solved this in half the time_ _. Or perhaps just convinced the path to reveal itself with one of his own marvelous compositions._ She closed her eyes and let her mind wander back. Victor seated at the upright, playing with a skill he'd honed over years of practice; her either at his side or ensconced in one of the nearby chairs, listening intently as her soul rose and fell with the wild notes, and the children –

The children. . . .

Alice folded her arms tight across her chest, resisting tears. "No melody should soothe this outrage," she whispered, banishing the happy thoughts back into the recesses of her mind. Much as she wished otherwise, there was no room for them here. Not while the little ones still suffered. Not while Bumby still walked free.

A _thunk_ to her left got her to open her eyes again, revealing that the wall there had dropped open. Beyond, she could see more quilted earth, and – train tracks! Another stop on the Looking-Glass Line! Alice nearly darted right off the edge in her eagerness to see if she'd caught the Infernal Train at last, but checked herself at the last moment. _Wait – what's in that room behind the bed? Mustn't neglect my duty to memory. . . ._ She turned around and circled back to investigate.

And indeed there _was_ a memory there, though it took smashing through a wall of brittle gingerbread men, slashing up more cockroach cake, and shrinking into a keyhole tunnel to find it. And Alice was not sure the reward was at all worth it – a pair of glittering glasses, which, when shattered, took her back to when Bumby had been describing his practice to a curious passerby: _"Remaking children. Build them up, tear them down, refashion them. Teach them the new –_ _ **forget the old!**_ _"_ _How did I never see it. . .he was worse than Barkis sometimes for being obvious!_ She abandoned the derelict room where the memory had lurked and made her way back toward the station. _Maybe I'll be lucky and some other, more astute human being will have already turned him in. Wouldn't it be funny if he ended up in my old cell. . .makes me wish I'd taken a moment to use the chamberpot._

As she dropped onto the rusted and rotted tracks that led to the Dollhouse stop, quiet giggling caught her ear. She turned to see an Insane Child, hair matted and missing her two front teeth, watching her with a purple crayon clutched in her fist. "Oh my – you're the one who's been scribbling all over the landscape, aren't you?" Alice asked, hurrying over. "How did you escape the slaughter?"

The Child crouched down and mimed pulling a blanket over her head. "I see. . .well, I'm glad at least one of you got away. I'm so sorry about the others."

The Child patted her hand, then turned around and started doodling on a nearby wall. "Your platforms saved my skin a few times back in the Cellars. . .is the Train here? Or the Dollmaker?"

No response except the grind of the crayon's tip on the rough wood. "Can't speak, then?"

The Child shook her head, then pointed at her invisible artwork. "Right, thank you. . . ." Taking a deep breath, Alice shrank down to make the mural clear. _Dollmaker – Insane Child – Doll Girl – and then –_

She'd known more or less what was happening to the children all throughout the Dollhouse. On some level, she suspected she'd known for quite a lot longer than that. But still, to see it spelled out like this. . . . _Oh_ _,_ _Nanny_ _. . ._ _you were wrong,_ she thought, biting her lip as she came back to normal size and the little artist scurried away. _Not just food for perverts._

_Food for the Infernal Train._

* * *

 

_Well. . ._ _I guess in its own twisted way, this is very appropriate. Wonderland and I were both fond of playing with mirror images, after all._

Alice sighed, shattering the doll heads that glared at her from both sides of the glass-and-screws slide leading back down into the Cellars. She no longer needed the teeth, not by a long shot, but neither did she need those chipped porcelain sockets glaring at her. Especially not when she was about to see Victor here for the final time. _Funny – it's even on the opposite side from back in the Vale,_ she thought as she walked over to the crystal butterfly. _How I wish I could just pick it up and carry it with me instead of smashing it to pieces. . . ._

But sadly, that was not how things worked around here. Especially not in the hell that was the Dollhouse. She took a moment to examine it minutely, taking in every last detail of what was likely to be the last even-near-happy thing she'd see in a while. Then she nodded and drew it close in a tight embrace. _All right then – what's his parting message to me?_

_BANG!_

_The sound echoed around the room, nearly sending Alice straight into the ceiling from fright. Her first instinct was to rush to the window and see if some fool had been shot in the street. Then heavy footsteps stormed her way, and she realized what she'd heard was actually Dr. Bumby's office door slamming into the wall. Right, Victor had just had his latest session. . .she poked her head out the door to see him round the corner, murder in his eyes. "Master Van Dort, some decorum!" Bumby called after him, sounding quite disappointed._

_Victor didn't reply – just continued along the hall at a steady stomp. "Have fun?" Alice asked flippantly, stepping outside as he passed the boys' room._

_"I hate him," Victor growled_ _, fingers flexing as if they longed to wrap around the psychiatrist's throat_ _. "I hate_ _how_ _he calls me foolish for believing in Emily's existence_ _,_ _I hate how he always has to be right_ _,_ _I hate how_ bossy _he is, how he won't give me a moment's peace–"_

_"There, there, it's over now," Alice said, patting his arm. "You've earned your freedom for the week."_

_"No I haven't – he's set me up for another appointment on Tuesday, right after yours!" Victor paced up and down before her, yanking hard at the knot of his tie. "I'm tempted not to go. He can't make me – all he can do is yell. Perhaps I'll just disappear into the city for the day and not return until dinnertime. Or at all. It's not like I don't know where the hotels are in this wretched city."_

_"Can you afford more than half an hour's stay is the real question," Alice reminded him, shaking her head. Oh dear, this kind of scene was slowly becoming more and more common around the Home. Victor and Bumby were getting on each other's last nerve after so long with no progress on either end. But Alice knew Victor would never actually abandon Houndsditch. He cared too much about her and the children, poor dear man. Even if it would be in his best interest to vanish softly and suddenly away, he always put the needs of others before his own. Nell and William had trained him far too well. His temper was like guncotton – it could get very hot, but it always burned itself out quickly. He'd be embarrassed by this display by the end of the day, and trying to make up for it the rest of the week. "Bumby is an arse, we all know that," she added, trying to soothe him. "But he really is just trying to help."_

_"Nonsense," Victor snarled_ _. The pure venom in his tone made Alice step back, suddenly wondering if she'd misjudged just how angry he was this time._ _"All he wants is to_ win _. And he doesn't give a damn if that involves making me do something that feels wrong down to the very depths of my soul!" He flung his arms wide._ _ **"**_ _ **How many times do I have to say it –**_ **I don't want to forget!** _ **I don't**_ **care** _ **if my memories make me a pariah – they're**_ **important** _ **to me! I wish he'd understand that! How you put up with him sometimes is beyond me!"**_

And then he was gone, replaced with a half-empty, busted bookcase that looked about ready to tip over and crush her. Alice half-wanted it to. Mirror images indeed. . .what was it she'd said to Bumby right before this whole mess had started? _"I want to forget! Who would choose to be alone, imprisoned by their broken memories?"_

Victor would. That moment she'd just seen – that had been a mere two days before her own fateful session. And while Victor's anger _had_ burned out by dinnertime, and he _had_ gone ahead and kept returning to the couch (as far as she knew, anyway), he'd never broken to Bumby's will. The doctor had argued with him, cajoled him, threatened him – and Victor had thrown it all back in his face, hanging onto his memories with an iron grip. He'd never cared if people thought him strange, or if his parents hated him for being stubborn, or if refusal brought extra pain into his life. He knew what was right, and he was not going to be swayed. Despite the psychiatrist's best methods, he'd never given Bumby an inch, fighting the man with everything he had.

He'd been stronger than her.

She could already hear his arguments against this in her mind. He'd never suffered like she had; she was incredibly strong just for surviving, just for getting out of Rutledge; no one could blame her for wanting to escape the pain. All true – and all irrelevant. She'd fallen down where it mattered the most. She should have never let Bumby into her mind in the first place. She should have tried harder to remember, to discover the truth earlier. Even in Rutledge, she'd thought there was something odd about the Dinah story – but she'd been exhausted from fighting the Queen, and the memories were so painful. . .but even painful memories were worth holding onto. And now – now she was just as ruined as the creatures that attacked her. And maybe so was everyone else.

"If you're hoping to cleanse the world via a flood, you'll have to find yourself another piece of the Queen's favorite cake."

Alice wiped her eyes as the Cheshire Cat materialized beside her. "Or I suppose the Toadstool of Life would do," he continued, tail flicking. "If only our woods were more than smoke and ash. So close to the endgame – why stop playing now?"

". . .Do you think he's safe, Cat?"

Cheshire flicked an ear, making his earring sway. "Is anyone really safe? The world is a dangerous and cruel place."

"I know, but – Bumby doesn't like him. Or, well, he doesn't like that Victor won't do as he wishes. I think he – he might –" _"It felt like he was looking awfully hard at – the a-area in question. . .sometimes, after he wakes me from a session, I'll find him – leaning over me. Watching me rather intently." And then there was the dance, where Bumby had come on them with rage in his eyes – rage and a disturbing possessiveness_ _. . . ._ "–might _like_ Victor himself," she finished, shuddering. "Not to mention Victor doesn't know what I know. It's like with Barkis – he understands Bumby's not nice, but he hasn't yet guessed the man's _evil_." She crouched down to meet Cheshire's eyes. "You've all said before you wouldn't keep me if his life was in danger, but there's more ways of killing a person than just stopping their heart. If Bumby's finally gotten the chance to try radical treatments – or even thrown him into Rutledge as a 'lost cause. . . .' I've lost everything else, Cat. Even Wonderland is nearly gone now, thanks to that damnable Train." Her vision grew wet again. "I don't want – I _can't_ lose him as well."

Cheshire leaned forward, his nose bumping against her. "The only way to make sure you don't is to _keep moving_. You still have foes to fight, battles to win. Your boy can take care of himself – he has been so far, hasn't he?"

"But what if he can't?" Alice whispered.

"Then you save him." The Cat's voice darkened. "Or avenge him. Either way – would _he_ want you to be standing around moping? Or would he encourage you onward, and damn the consequences?"

Pictures fluttered through her mind – battling an Army Ant in her favorite London dress, braving the Looking-Glass chessboard in a bishop's hat, soaring through Queensland's steam on angel wings. A new swell of determination rose up inside her. Alice nodded, straightening up and blinking her eyes clear. "Right," she nodded, back straight and tall. "Thank you, Cat. You've actually been helpful for once."

"Well, I confess to not being _entirely_ altruistic," Cheshire said, getting onto all fours and winding around her legs. "Victor _did_ say that he'd blame me if you weren't at Radcliffe's that day Jack Splatter split you in twain. Encouraging you to keep on course is the only apology I can give. After that incident with the Queen, I'd prefer not to incur anyone's wrath, even his."

Alice laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. He'd probably just snap at you for a few minutes, then apologize within the hour."

Cheshire grinned brightly at her as his flesh began to fade. "The small chance of sustaining multiple fork wounds keeps my curiosity tempered with caution."

Moments later, his smile winked out of existence. Alice jumped onto the slide and pushed off, steering around hot globs of Ruin with practiced ease. Her friend was right – hanging around thinking about things she couldn't change wasn't going to help anyone. There was no time to waste. The sooner she cleared this – this _infection_ out of her head, the quicker she could be back in the real world. _And the quicker I can check up on Victor._

Of course, the Dollmaker was not going to let her off that easily. As the slide came to an end, she launched herself into the air – and almost immediately into the grasp of a Menacing Ruin. "Gah!" She butterflied away, only to hear the telltale squeal of a Doll Girl from the right side of the room – and then, a second, from the left. "Oh, perfect. . . ."

Fortunately, the bit she'd landed on was separated from the rest of the arena by a healthy gap and a raised platform. As the Girls wandered round and round in circles along the outside edge (one, blonde, wielding scissors, and the other, brunette, sporting hook-hands), Alice concentrated her fury on the Ruin. It was harder to dodge those gigantic gooey hands and lava-hot fireballs when you had only a small square of wood to do so on, but she managed, smashing its protective china arms and then severing each face one by one. _All right,_ she thought as the platform dropped down with a slight bump. _A few cupfuls of tea for the blonde, then a round of pepper for the_ –

The floor beneath her reverberated with a heavy "THUD" as the blonde Doll Girl leapt across the gap and landed right in front of her. "What – _that is not fair!_ " Alice shrieked, jumping for safety as a scissor half took off a few centimeters of hair. " _I'm_ the only one who's supposed to be able to jump like that!"

The blonde Doll Girl paid this absolutely no mind, leaping after her as her sister came waddling up from the other side. Alice butterflied around the sharp hooks, then whirled with Teapot Cannon in hand, blasting them both at once. _New plan – just keep hitting them and don't stop!_

This more or less worked – switching from Cannon to Pepper Grinder and back as each overheated was easy enough, and both Girls proved as vulnerable to the combination as all their siblings. But she still took a few blows from the Girls' playful stomping – and when the blonde one finally died, body collapsing into a pile of broken parts, an entire swarm of Bitch Babies popped up from nowhere to take her place. "Damn it damn it damn it. . . ." By the end of the fight, she was sore, bleeding, and smelt quite horribly of sweat and poisonous vomit.

But she was alive, and that was the main thing. She snatched up every flower of meta-essence that remained, then carved her initials into the wall out of pure spite. After a moment's consideration, she added a "+ VVD" under them, and etched a heart around the lot, figuring that would tick the Dollmaker off even more. "That's right, not yours and never will be – now how do I get out of here?"

A set of blue eye blocks with bouncy mushrooms on their tops provided the answer. Alice hopped across them onto another weathered platform hanging in midair. Past a brittle wall of melted china children lay her goal – a burning Liddell door, hopefully the last she'd ever have to see. Alice ran forward and flung it open, readying herself for whatever memory might come. Would this one at last be the key to –

The key. . . .

_I had a role in my family's demise._

The key Bumby kept on his watch chain.

_But I did not start the fire._

The key that he used to hypnotize his patients.

_Centaurs don't live in Oxford. . .but a certain doctor did._

The key she'd always thought looked a bit familiar, but just couldn't place.

_I saw him – a preening undergraduate._

The key that proved he'd been in her house that night.

_Now I remember him!_

The key that proved he'd been the one to destroy her life.

**"** _ **That key belongs to Lizzie's room!**_ **"**

* * *

 

"Am I not the most _wretched_ and _selfish_ of fortune's fools? Oblivious, I live in a training ground for _prostitutes_! My mentor is an abuser and purveyor! I've been complicit with my sister's murderer, and the killer of my family, as he corrupted my mind! I sought relief from my pain and you turned me away from the truth!"

The Dollmaker gazed at her impassively from his seat among the mountains of drawers, shelves, boxes, and other storage compartments that made up his home – or, well, he seemed to. It was a bit hard to tell when his eyes were merely fountains of Ruin. He was a strange, stitched-together puppet version of Bumby – at least fifty times bigger than her, with skin like tanned leather. Ruin poured from every available orifice on his face, dripping down his chin in a mockery of the real version's goatee and splattering onto the boards below him. Oversized doll heads, much like the ones which appeared on his pets, were embedded into the backs of his gnarled hands, held in place by heavy nails. They clicked as he untangled his fingers, mouths chanting soundless words. The evil coming off him was palpable – if he'd ever appeared in a Punch and Judy show, her mother would have taken to the streets to have them banned immediately.

Something went _clack_ nearby, and Alice looked down to see an Insane Child, limbs and torso encased in porcelain, lying in the middle of the workspace, squirming and crying. She stepped forward, ready to mount a rescue, but the Dollmaker was faster, scooping the unfortunate Child up in one jagged-nailed hand. "You were almost there," he commented as he rummaged around in one of the rough-hewn drawers that served for pockets on his waistcoat. Even his words seemed to ooze from between his needle-sharp teeth. "Almost free from what you fear. You could have been cured. You could have _forgotten_."

Alice glared, fists clenched tight. "Abandon the memory of my family?"

"They are dead," the Dollmaker replied, pulling out a one-eyed, stubble-scalped doll's head. The Child struggled mightily, wailing "Noo, nooooo!" over and over, but it was no use. The china head closed over her own – and as the pieces clicked shut, she went limp as a corpse. The Dollmaker admired his handiwork, then glowered at Alice. "And _you_ should be too."

"Well, I'm not," Alice snarled. "I've defeated everything you've thrown at me, you – you misbegotten abomination! Murderer! You blood-sucking parasite! The damage you've done to children!" She fought back a threatening crack in her voice as she turned her gaze to the ceiling. More Insane Children hung there, pierced by cruel meat hooks, all in various states of dollification. It had been like that all throughout the monster's sanctum. Alice had done her best to sever the strings, or knock the little ones loose with her weapons, but sadly, she'd been helpless in the face of the Dollmaker's evil. No, their only hope – and hers – was direct confrontation. "The abuse!"

The Dollmaker shrugged. "I provide a service," he said, dropping the completed doll into a nearby chute. "In the great and awful metropolis, appetites of all sorts must be – gratified."

Alice decided that not vomiting in response to that statement qualified her for some sort of prize. Especially since it brought up a nasty image of what sort of appetites _she_ might have gratified. She fought against the scenes of a pale imitation of life barely avoided, struggling for her next subject. "My family. . .my mind. . .the Infernal Train. . . ."

The Dollmaker inclined his head as another Child dropped down beside him. "The Train is your – invention, your defense," he explained, picking up the sobbing boy. "I merely set its schedule and itinerary." He smirked as he extracted another head from his waistcoat and silenced the Child forever. "The train is coming with its shiny cars/With comfy seats, and wheels of stars/So hush my little ones and have no fear/The man in the moon is the engineer."

"I never–" Alice started, then stopped. No – the Dollmaker had a point, much as she was loathe to admit it. The Infernal Train had been built in Wonderland factories, by Wonderland residents. It might have been built at his direction, but she'd been the one to open the door and let him in. To abandon her previous train of thought for another. God, what a fool she'd been. . . .

But at the same time it disgusted her that she was the real reason that vile metal beast had been allowed to rampage through Wonderland, it also gave her hope. If the Train was truly her invention, that meant it was subject to _her_ laws, _her_ desires, not Bumby's. And if she desired it to be no more. . . . "I'll stop that Train – if it's the last thing I do," she swore, glaring up at the Dollmaker with steely resolve practically leaking out her ears.

Another shrug – and then, suddenly, one of the bony, sewn-together hands reached out and enveloped her. "As you wish – it will be!"

"What are you doing? Let me go!" Alice shrieked, stabbing at his fingers.

The Dollmaker ignored the pain – if indeed he felt any at all. There was a rustling from beyond the darkness – then he seized her right arm and stretched it out stiff. The Vorpal Blade fell from her fingers as coldness wrapped around the limb. Alice tried to yank it back, but it didn't want to obey her commands anymore. Glancing between his fingers, she saw – smooth creamy porcelain. _No – no no no!_

Her left foot lashed out in a haze of rage and panic, but the Dollmaker simply caught it between his finger and thumb, and ripped off the boot. He did the same to her right, then yanked off her stockings. Alice kicked again, but first one leg, then the other, was covered in naked china, and they went limp and weak. Next he pulled off her dress, shredding it to bits (Alice tried to cover herself with the arm still under her control), and snapped a bare torso around her chest and belly. Her lungs strained to get the air they needed in their chill prison. _Shit, God no. . .what happens when he puts the head on? I can't have come this far just to fail now!_

And then, as her other arm was deadened by porcelain, she remembered the mural the last free Insane Child had drawn for her. Children into dolls. . .and then dolls dumped onto the Infernal Train. Which was parked right underneath this very workshop. By the state of things in Wonderland, there was nowhere else for it to go. . .and no other chances for her to board. _If he thinks he's won, and drops me in with the others. . .I just hope I can hold onto myself long enough to take advantage of it!_

The Dollmaker gave her a shark's smile as he pulled out the head (two eyes on hers – how kind of him). "You're lost. And where your body is, your mind will follow. Perhaps it's already there."

Alice spat at him in one last show of defiance. The Dollmaker chuckled, popped the head open, then forced hers up. She bit back a scream as the false skin enveloped her, and the coldness bit into her neck –

And then, blackness.


	24. Confrontation At Moorgate Station

November 5th, 1875

Moorgate Station, London's East End, England

11:47 A.M.

" _You_ _oozing sore of DEPRAVITY!_ "

Bumby spun around, surprise briefly showing on his face before he managed to smooth over the expression. "Alice? Well well. . .I thought you lost to me forever." He smiled in a fatherly way. "Come back to attempt therapy one last time?"

"After what you've done to the others?" Alice snarled, fists clenched tight at her sides.

"You mean aided them along the road to sanity? Helped them find a purpose in their lives?"

"Some purpose!" Oh, he could spew all the drivel he wanted – she had him. She _finally_ had him. Every piece of the puzzle, snapped neatly into place. This – this devil in human skin, this gooey collection of Ruin with a silver tongue, would never fool her again! "Children wearing their 'names' around their necks – as if they're breeding livestock!"

For a moment, Bumby seemed ready to deny the charge. Then a smirk appeared on his face. "A declaration of their pedigree," he said, clearly deciding it wasn't worth proving his innocence to her. Good – she was in no mood for his lies! "You could use one. They're proud to display their provenance – huhahahaha!"

Hysteria nipped at the edges of her vision, a boiling red haze. Alice fought it back. Much as she was tempted to just leap on him and silence that horrid voice forever, she needed to keep him talking. After all, she still had no idea exactly _where_ his wretched activities took place. Not even she would have been empty-headed enough not to notice him selling the poor children straight from the Home. And she needed all the information she could get before dragging him to Hightopp and Tarrant. "You brute!" she snapped. Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't even care. It was a more-than-warranted crack. "They can't remember who they are or where they're from." She hit him with the most chilling glare she could muster, hands on her hips. "How many minds have you twisted into forgetfulness?"

Bumby shot icicles back at her from his mud-brown eyes. "Not enough! Yours would have been a triumph." His smirk returned. "Still, you're an insane wreck. My work is done."

Abruptly Alice's vision filled with blinding white, followed by a cloying, suffocating black. _What –_ She tried to lift her arm to wipe at her eyes, but it wouldn't follow her commands. Instead, it just laid splayed at her side, cold and stiff. Her heart struggled to beat against a terrible pressure on her chest, and what shallow breaths she could drag in seemed to echo around her. _The workshop!_ Alice realized. _So this is what it feels like to be a doll. . .I'd almost feel sorry for them if so many hadn't tried to kill me._ She tried to flex her feet, open her mouth, just twitch a finger, and found them all impossible. The Dollmaker had done his work well. But she could still think for herself, even if those thoughts were broken and shattered. She was still Alice, despite everything he'd tried. _Your work_ isn't _done, and you haven't won yet. I just need one opening – one fraction of a second –_

Beyond the prison of porcelain, the world rumbled like an earthquake, and then her false body clattered against those of the Dollmaker's previous victims as they all toppled down, down down. Alice listened hard as she fell into what she guessed was open air, and heard a growl and screech from below, like a lion sharpening its claws on a slab of steel. _T_ _he Infernal Train!_ _But I can't let myself be shoveled into the furnace. . . ._ She squeezed her eyes tight and concentrated as hard as she could, picturing long dark hair and heavy buckled boots, sharp green eyes and thick striped stockings, and a dress as blue as the summer sky, white as the freshly-fallen snow, and red with hot, sticky blood. _Just like when you tumbled down the rabbit hole into the Vale. You didn't want to start your adventure in the wrong clothes – do you want to end it in them?_

Slowly, deadened limbs began to move again, pushing against the smoke and steam to move her upright. The china trembled and cracked as she spread out her arms and stretched her legs. The supernova in her belly caught light – swelled up –

BANG! Alice threw her head back, sucking in the air as porcelain showered down around her. Her skirts floofed outward, slowing her fall to a feather's crawl and giving her a chance to get her wits about her again. Around her, the bodies of the children tumbled and crashed onto the monstrous locomotive that fronted the Train, ready to be boiled down to sludge and emerge as mindless Ruins. They would be the last, Alice vowed. No other child would ever again be made into –

_Oh crap, it's leaving!_

Alice stared in horror as the smokestack, belching sparks and smog, started chugging away from her. The Infernal Train was a long one – in fact, she'd swear it had added to itself with every domain destroyed – but if she kept descending at her current rate, it would be gone long before she reached the ground. She slapped the sides of her skirts flat and went into freefall, holding her breath as she plummeted toward the rapidly-departing line of cars. _Come on, come on_ –

Luck was just barely with her – she landed with a heavy bump on the caboose, falling to her hands and knees as the Train left its miserable station. "About my least graceful entrance ever. At least I haven't been shoved through any brick walls." She swept a bit of soot off her arm. "Yet."

There didn't seem to be any risk of a crash on the horizon, though. The world beyond the sharp Gothic steel arches and turrets that made up the body of the Infernal beast was nothing but a haze of smoke and ash, whirling by at a fantastic rate. Alice squinted at the sky, trying to discern if anything remained of Wonderland, then decided it didn't really matter. If she didn't stop this train now, there _definitely_ wouldn't be anything left. She raced forward, dodging around towers set with stained glass and butterflying through spiky fences of heavy iron. _Child's play – no wonder the Queen was upset he'd taken over her role, he can't even make a proper maze._

She navigated three wagons in this manner, weaving and ducking as necessary, always on the alert for some of Bumby's pets to show their ugly faces. Then, darting through a tall, narrow arch, she found herself in, not a Ruin-strewn battle arena, but a richly-appointed passenger car. Brass chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, casting playful shadows across the space, while deep red curtains held the outside world at bay from the plush purple seats. _I wonder why March and Dormy bothered?_ she asked herself, hurrying along. _Who did they expect to be – Hatter?!_

Alice skidded to a stop on the checkered floor. Sure enough, it was her friend in the flesh – or what passed for it with him – clutching his teapot-headed cane and looking quite sour. _But how can he be here? I saw him crushed! . . .But then again, how much does that really matter when he's mostly clockwork and gears and mechanical gizzards? Not the best conversationalist in the world, but he_ did _take me to find the Train. Perhaps he could be persuaded to offer help again?_ "Hatter!" she cried, running up to him. "I must stop this Infernal Train and the evil force that drives it!"

To her surprise, Hatter's response was a glare. "Everything's a nail, is it, Miss Hammerhead?!" he snapped, smacking his cane against his palm. "First it was your search, freighted with fear and fragmented memories. Now it's the Train! Never time for tea." He jabbed the point at the window as an image of him, March, and Dormy seated at their spiral table, feasting and laughing as they had in happier days, appeared on the glass. "While your brain's on holiday–" the picture was wiped away in a splash of oozing black "–we're ruined!"

"I – but – this still – I didn't realize before–" Alice babbled. "I'm trying to fix it now–"

Hatter rolled his eyes to the ceiling, sighing. "Of course you didn't – you're mad. Now we're _all_ mad here, and that's a good excuse for going to hell in a teapot–" He nailed her to the wall with a scowl as a new scene appeared on the pane: March and Dormy, disfigured by metal and mechanics, tormenting his disembodied head, before marching away under the shadow of the Dollmaker "–but not for forgetting what your senses saw." His expression turned sad. "Forgetting is just forgetting – except when it's not. Then they call it something else. I'd like to forget what you did. I've tried, but I can't."

Alice could practically feel Bumby sitting behind her, watching all of this with a self-satisfied smirk. She looked at her shoes, riddled with guilt. "I'm sorry, Hatter," she whispered. "I'm sorry for leaving you and your friends under those girders. I'm sorry for not taking the proper time to mourn you. I'm sorry for letting March and Dormy fall in the first place." The faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "And I'm sorry I never stopped for a cup of tea."

"Sorry isn't the same as action – but it's a start," Hatter allowed, softening at her stricken face. "But don't forget to make it a finish!" Rising from his seat, he click-clacked his way to the opposite end of the car, sealed with a heavy oak door. One sharp strike with his cane, and the portal flew open. "Be on your way now – and make sure he gets his claws out of my tea table!"

"Gladly," Alice told him, offering a curtsy. Hatter bowed in return, even tipping his hat. Niceties out of the way, she darted around him, ready to resume her travels –

Only for the world to flash white again, and rebuild Moorgate Station around her. Alice blinked as she got her bearings. Oh dear – how long had she been out? Bumby was watching her with a rather contemplative look, but it didn't seem like much had changed beyond that. Good – couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes then. She could live with that. "You've used me, and abused me – but you will not destroy me!" she declared, resuming her tirade.

"No?" Bumby inquired, tilting his head slightly. "Look at yourself. The damage is done. The old Alice and her Wonderland retreat are demolished. You can't even recognize what's happened."

Alice shook her head. "I'm here talking to you, aren't I? I know what filth you propagate. You haven't destroyed everything!"

"I've destroyed enough," Bumby retorted, crossing his arms across his chest. "And you're powerless to change it or move against me." He dropped his hands and stepped forward, eyes narrowed and lip curled. "I've made certain of that."

"Have–" Alice started, only for the whiteness to claim her again, shoving her into another of the Train's passenger cars. _Ah!_ _Damn it, Wonderland – can't I get out more than two sentences against him before you call me back?_ she thought, irritated. _The bastard thinks he's walking all over me!_

Well, at least she was still making progress up the Train, it seemed. No sign of Hatter here – instead, there was another green-skinned resident of her fantasy world, sitting – or, rather, hovering – above one of the velvet seats. Caterpillar (or was he Butterfly now? No, she'd thought of him as Caterpillar for far too long to rename him) glowered accusingly as she approached. "Come to receive your punishment then?" he asked, his scowling wings flapping hard behind him.

Alice put up a hand to shield her face from the breeze. "I know I'm guilty of something – but punishment never suits the victims of the crime," she said as her stomach lurched. Oh yes, Wonderland could punish her all it liked – but would that really help the remaining children? "Especially a crime like this one."

The back of the car suddenly went dark, with a single spotlight from the chandelier focused on the door. A paper theater show popped up in the yellow circle, showing a host of children – old residents of Houndsditch, Alice knew immediately – standing dully on the sale block. Around them crowded men in tattered coats and beat-up old hats, muttering to themselves about the "goods" and their prices. "Abuse is a crime the strong visit on the weak," Caterpillar declared as one man dragged off a boy (Charlie's old friend Farley?) with a 9 round his neck. "And you're right – abusers are insufficiently punished for the damage they do." The scene changed to the front foyer of Houndsditch in all its decrepit glory – and there was Bumby, eyes glinting with greed as he pulled forward Charlie and Abigail, paper bibs in hand. "Those who witness abuse without seeking retribution for the harmed pay a penalty. Your own pain mitigates your failure to act earlier–" and then there she was, wide-eyed and blank, staring at nothing while endless lines of dolls ticked on by behind her "–but you may not yet have paid enough for witnessing the pain of others."

Alice swallowed as the impromptu show faded back into blackness. If there was one thing Wonderlanders were good at, it was punching her in the gut. "I'm well aware," she said, looking back at Caterpillar. "'Idle hands are the devil's playthings' and other such cliches. I let this happen, and that makes me practically as guilty as Bumby." Her fists tightened. "But I refuse to allow him to be insufficiently punished for what he did! I've torn off the blinders and uncorked my senses. The children will not have suffered in vain. I will seek their retribution or die trying!"

"Well, we'd rather you didn't do the latter, but your courage is – encouraging," Caterpillar replied, smiling. He reached down and took up his ever-present hookah pipe. "Never wallow in your own guilt," he continued, sucking in a deep breath. "Take action!" He blew out a thin gust of smoke, which took the form of a heavy fist and shot down the wagon. In a blast of fruit-scented tobacco, the far door was open. "Your course is clear – derail this train!"

"That's the plan!" Alice darted out of the car and across the next length of decorative iron, weaving around a turret set inconveniently in the middle of her path. The sky had turned a fiery orange now, and the smoke streaming out above her smelled of charred wood and singed flesh. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw a blackened chunk of the Vale of Doom whistle past. Wonderland was clinging to a mere whisper of life, it appeared. But all was not lost, and she was still on the move. Just a few more cars to go through, and –

And back to Moorgate, of course. Bumby grinned nastily as she wavered, forcing her brain to readjust to reality. "Oh, Alice. . .it's darling, really, that you think you can fight me when you're constantly drifting off into silly, pointless dreams."

Alice glared at him through slitted eyes. "And that, _Doctor_ , proves your incompetence! I still have the Wonderland you attempted to erase! You corrupted my memories, but you _failed_ to make me forget!"

Dr. Bumby frowned at that, clearly not pleased at having his "triumph" thrown back in his face. "True," he allowed grudgingly. "You never did do as you were told. I could have made you into a tasty bit. Clients out the door waiting for a piece from a raving delusional beauty, with no memory of the past and no sense of the future." He examined his nails. "I was quite looking forward to it myself."

Alice gritted her teeth so hard she swore she heard something pop in her jaw. Maybe it wasn't worth trying to conduct this interrogation, maybe she should just beat him senseless and drag him out of the station straight to the constabulary – "But you wouldn't forget," Bumby continued, face contorting with anger and disgust. "You insisted on holding on to your _fantasies_. You're mad! Like your _sister_."

How _dare_ he?! " _Don't_ speak of her!" Alice yelled, moving forward a step. She was going to ask the hangman if she could do the job herself! "You didn't know her!"

"Your sister was a tease!" Bumby shot back. "Pretended to despise me! But I knew the truth. She got what she wanted. . ." He pulled his watch from his pocket, and Alice's eyes locked onto the key dangling from the chain. ". . .in the end."

Whiteness again, and another chandeliered and carpeted car, with – of all people – the Queen of Hearts seated within. Alice barely noticed her at first though, her mind fixed on Bumby's last words. Got what she wanted? "My Lizzie. . . ." she breathed as she walked up the aisle. "What did he do to you?" Her gaze found the Queen, who was regarding her with characteristic impatience. "What _is_ this Train's destination?"

The Queen huffed. "Madness and destruction," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world – and it was, but Alice had other things on her mind. "You shouldn't ask questions you know the answers to, it's not polite." She leaned forward, seizing Alice's arm in her meaty fingers. "And that noise _wasn't_ Lizzie talking in her sleep."

Alice frowned at the monarch, baffled. What? What the hell did _that_ have to do with –

_Alice stirred slightly as the floor outside her bedroom creaked. "Be still, Dinah," she mumbled, turning onto her side._

_Dinah mowed, then all went quiet again. Alice snuggled into the pillow, trying to recapture the lovely dream she'd been having before. There had been flamingos involved, and brightly colored hedgehogs – oh yes, the Queen of Hearts had been repainting them for a new game of croquet. Alice petted one of the nervous little creatures, smoothing down its spines. "It'll be all right. You'll just be blue for a while," she said, lowering it gently into the bath of dye. "Cheshire-Puss is blue, and he's never complained. You might find you like it!" The hedgehog twitched its nose disbelievingly. "And it's better than making the Queen mad, right?"_

_That the hedgehog could not deny. It rolled round and round the tub, turning itself a deep blue from snout to tail. "There!" Alice plucked it out of the water and wrapped it up in a fluffy towel. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"_

_"Mruph!"_

_Alice blinked. That was a funny noise to come from a hedgehog. "What was that?"_

_"Mrgh! Msshh!"_

_Alice titled her head, sweeping some hair out of her eyes. "Do you have a cold?" Maybe the poor thing would have to be excused from the game. . . ._

_"Nuuu! Gghn!"_

_"You'll have to speak up – I can't make out a word you're saying," Alice said, folding her arms._

_The hedgehog just stared up at her as a funny squeaking noise started up in the background. "Rghh! Nnnh! Bstrd!" it said – except the noises didn't seem to be coming from it at all, now that Alice was watching its snout. They sounded farther away, more like – like – "Lizzie?"_

_Alice opened her eyes,_ _blinking the fog of sleep from them. The squeaking continued, along with the angry grunts and groans. That was definitely her sister's voice. . .but why was she making such a racket in the middle of the night? Was she having a nightmare? "But I slayed the Jabberwock," Alice mumbled, rubbing her face. Ugh, was she going to have to cut off his head yet again? Stupid Queen of Hearts being so protective of her roses – why didn't she just breed ones that could take care of themselves?_

_Still, it would not do to leave Lizzie in the grips of nighttime agony. Alice yawned, shook her head to clear it, then prepared to throw back the covers –_

_The noises stopped._

_Alice froze as well. Had Lizzie managed to fight off the dream demons on her own? Her sister was the bravest, strongest person she knew, after all. . .but there was something sinister about this silence. Something that made her hair stand on end. She pressed herself back into the pillows and waited._

_Another loud creak, and the door to Lizzie's room opened – but what came out was not Lizzie. Instead, it was man-shaped, at least at the front. The back extended into the shadows, making it look like he had four legs instead of two. A centaur? But the face – that looked like –_

_The centaur's head jerked toward her, and Alice bit back a shriek as she saw he had no eyes, just two shiny holes –_ **No, glasses, those are _glasses_ , _Alice wanted to scream as the figure came up on her younger self._ **You have to get up, warn Mum and Dad, tell them he – he – _"Oh, no. . .p-poor Lizzie. . . ."_** **

_But of course her younger self couldn't hear – all she knew was that a monster was at her door and she didn't have anywhere to run. Sobbing, she flung the covers over her head. "White Knight! Hatter! Cheshire-Puss!"_

_She couldn't see the centaur anymore, but a sudden extra depth to the darkness suggested he'd closed her door. But that was even worse, she couldn't be without her nightlight – "Oh dear me, what's the trouble?"_

_"Hatter!" Alice flung herself into the tall man's arms. Footsteps down the hall suggested the appearance of her friend had scared the centaur away – good! "S-something mean tried to get me! And I think it might have gotten Lizzie too!"_

_"There there, calm down," Hatter said, patting her head. "All you need is a nice cup of tea! Come along – Gryphon, Turtle, and Humpty-Dumpty have brought the White Rabbit around to celebrate his unbirthday! Cheshire will pop up too, I'm sure – he always does."_

_Alice sniffed and wiped her eyes. "All right." A spot of tea probably would calm her down a little. And it would be nice to wish the Rabbit a happy unbirthday. She took Hatter's hand and let him lead her back to March's house with its big spiral table in the yard –_

_And then the scene changed to something she could never have actually seen, but could easily guess at. A bony hand snatching up her nightlight as its owner hurried down the hall – a muttered declaration of "Damn that brat, have to get rid of her" – then the lamp flying into the library, smashing into the almost-but-just-not-quite dead log in the fire and bringing it back to roaring life – **"And there are no centaurs in Oxford," the Queen snarled, as the flames filled the house, burning away both little Alice's family and innocence. "Make your survival mean something –**_ **or we are all doomed _!"_**

And then reality grabbed her again, thrusting her blinking back into the present. Alice pressed a hand to her forehead, trying not to either collapse or vomit. Switching between worlds so rapidly was making her quite dizzy. . .but she could bear that. No, it was the knowledge of what Lizzie had _truly_ suffered during her last moments of life that made her so weak in the knees. If only she'd woken a minute earlier, caught him in the act, run screaming to her Papa. . . .

But no. She'd been eight, and half-asleep, and terrified she was going to be next. No sense blaming her younger self for something she hadn't understood. She understood now – and she was going to rip Bumby limb from limb for it. "You killed my family. You _destroyed_ my sister," she hissed, using her rage as balance. "You will pay."

"Oh, I don't think so," Bumby said with a mocking smile. "I already told you – you're powerless to move against me. Everyone knows of your inability to distinguish fantasy from reality. Your imagination will destroy you."

"It will save me!" Alice yelled, fingernails biting into her palms. "And I _will_ find proof of your wrongdoing, whatever it takes! You will _not_ get away with this!"

"Won't I? I have someone here who disagrees." Bumby turned toward the shadows at the far end of the platform. "Thirteen?"

Alice followed his gaze, puzzled. Who or what was Thirteen? Had Bumby brought one of the children along with him? _Damn it, Charlie, has he gotten you by now? Or Dennis? But why would he bring you to the station? Is he meeting one of his_ –

_No. Oh please God no. . . ._

Alice's blood ran cold as Victor Van Dort walked up beside Bumby. He looked superficially the same as when she'd last seen him, pale skin and dark hair and grey suit, but – his arms hung limp and heavy by his sides, and his steps were far too even and measured, almost like clockwork. And his eyes. . .they were as blank and dead as a Doll Girl's. Alice pressed her hands to her mouth, holding in the threatening scream. What had happened to the sweet, clumsy, twitchy boy she'd grown to love? _What had Bumby done to him?_

Bumby grinned at her horrified expression. "You should be proud of him, my girl," he said, placing a possessive hand on Victor's shoulder. "It's very rare that I have someone fight me like he did. He struggled until the very end." The psychiatrist snickered softly. "But he broke, just like they all do. There's nothing left of who he was before. Now he's merely who I want him to be. Isn't that right, Thirteen?" he added to Victor.

"Yes, sir," Victor replied, his voice a dull monotone.

Tears pricked at the corners of Alice's eyes. "Release him," she whispered, her anger faltering. Oh God, seeing Victor like this physically hurt. _I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. Why am I never around to save those I love?_

"I think not," Bumby said. "And if you're so insistent on being a problem. . . ." He turned to his new puppet. "Silence her. For good."

Victor nodded once, then started toward her. Alice stepped back, wondering what he was going to do, wondering if she had the strength to fight back if – _when_ he attempted to hurt her. _You have to, you haven't a choice – but damn it, it's_ Victor _, how could I ever do him harm –_

And then, abruptly, he jerked to a stop. The blank mask of his face slipped, revealing mild confusion. Alice leaned forward as he blinked. Was he perhaps fighting off Bumby's control? "Victor?" she asked softly.

No response. "Thirteen," Bumby said, sounding annoyed, "you don't want to be a _bad boy_ , do you?"

Terror flashed across Victor's face, making Alice's hatred for Bumby leap another few notches. Then the blankness was back, and he moved forward again, hands twitching as if aching to lock around her throat. Alice briefly considered just making a run for it, then forced herself to stand her ground. It wouldn't do any good to flee – Victor had longer legs, and an empty-minded determination to obey. She had to face this like the warrior she was in Wonderland. She set her jaw and looked Victor – Thirteen – straight in the eyes.

To her surprise, he froze again, gaze locked with hers. Staring into those deep black pools, she thought she spied a flicker of consciousness – something probing her face, as if trying to remember. . . . "Victor," she said, feeling a rush of hope. "Victor, it's–"

" _Thirteen_ ," Bumby snapped, cutting her off.

Victor didn't move, eyes still fixed on hers. His brow furrowed, his mouth twitched, and then: "M-Mistress?"

. . .What?

Her confusion was echoed on Bumby's face. He glanced between the pair, fiddling with his glasses as if he expected that to make a difference. "Alice," he said, walking up to them, "have you been playing with my toys?"

_POW!_

In a whirl of white and black, Victor's fist met Bumby's face, sending the psychiatrist staggering backward clutching a bloodied lip. Her friend stood protectively in front of her, incandescent with rage. "NO! I WON'T HURT HER!" he screamed, and Alice's heart soared as she realized his voice was Victor's again. "YOU WON'T TOUCH HER!"

Alice let out a little cheer, clapping and bouncing with delight. Likely wildly inappropriate, but who cared? _Hah! Your control isn't as complete as you believed, is it?_ she thought triumphantly. _That's my boy!_

Her joy, however, was short-lived. After a moment of dangerous wobbling, Bumby got his feet, eyes blazing. " _Bad boy, Thirteen!_ " he roared, advancing like an enraged bull. " _Very bad boy!_ "

Victor stumbled away from the doctor's assault, eyes wide with sudden terror. "No," he whispered, holding up his hands. "No, I-I'm sorry. . . ."

" _Bad! Worthless! Weak!_ " Bumby grabbed Victor's jacket, yanking him close with a vicious glare. " _You deserve to rot in the dark!_ "

"No! No, please, I'm s-sorry, don't send me back there, p-please!" Victor begged, beginning to cry.

" _I'll send you wherever I wish, Thirteen! Back into the dark! Back into your worst nightmares! And you can stay there until you learn to behave!_ "

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . ."

Alice watched the scene with horrified eyes. Victor's cries cut her to her very soul, urging her to help, urging her to do something, urging her –

Urging her forward on the Infernal Train.

She burst into motion, running as if all the legions of Hell were behind her. Or rather, as if they were ahead of her. One last car to go – Alice leapt over the stairs in her way, gritting her teeth in between bursting into butterflies to gain even more speed. No obstacle would slow her steps now. Victor would not suffer another minute under that monster's control. Not if she had anything to say about it.

She kicked open the iron doors on the other side and shot into the engine room at last. A hellish cage of dark, twisted metal pipes, choked with smell of burning porcelain and flesh, greeted her. Two steel pillars dominated the middle of the floor, reaching bulbous heads up to a dome of stained glass depicting Ruins from Slithering to Colossal worshiping their creator. Before her loomed the door to the furnace, a huge circle of pitted, smoldering iron suitable for one of Dante's poems. Beneath her feet, glass panes exposed fresh Ruin boiling away, ready to spill over and drown whatever remained of her stricken mind. Alice took it all in with barely a thought, searching frantically for the person she knew had to be here. _Where is he? Where's Victor?_

A whimper from above made her look up. Suspended between the two pillars, wrapped in a web of Ruin strands and puppet strings, dangled her beloved, like a fly in the clutches of a Nightmare Spider. He was paler than usual – the pale of porcelain rather than flesh, Alice realized. The Dollmaker had forced him into a false body as well. He hung there cold and helpless and naked as the day he was born, the Ruin obscenely wrapping over his chest and between his thighs. His head still looked organic, though – oh, yes, it was. No doll could cry the way he was, tears streaming down his cheeks to land with soft patters on the floor like rain. Alice's heart shattered at the sight. He suffered so. . .and in his suffering she could see the pain of all the others. Had Lizzie cried like that, she wondered, before Bumby –

A familiar red-nailed, doll-emblazoned hand suddenly smashed through the ceiling, scattering glass everywhere. Alice yanked out her umbrella for cover as its black-nailed twin joined it, seizing a chunk of the furnace door and ripping it away. A familiar cruel laughter echoed around her as the hands continued tearing the room apart, exposing the towering form of the Dollmaker. He didn't look quite as solid as he had in the Dollhouse – his body was now an almost naga-like stream of pure Ruin under his waistcoat, and he'd traded his arms for marionette strings. Perhaps confronting Bumby had weakened him somewhat. . .but Alice knew better than to hope. This was the master of all her misery, and he would not give up his crown without a fight.

The Dollmaker sent the last chunk of broken metal toppling into the abyss, then smirked at her over the wreck of his engine. He bowed mockingly, one "arm" extended. " _Hide in your shell!_ "

Alice glared back at him, her fingers curling around the handle of the Vorpal Blade. _No,_ she thought. _Never again. You've taken my parents, my sister, my sanity, everything good and pure that I had. You're not getting Wonderland._ Her eyes flicked to Victor's limp, pain-filled form. _And you're_ not _getting_ him _._

It was time to take this bastard down.


	25. Into Londerland

November 5th, 1875

Moorgate Station, London's East End, England

11:58 A.M.

_"Don't struggle, Alice!"_

_A heavy grunt, a violent swing, and the Hobby Horse shattered the first doll head, left unprotected after the Dollmaker had tried to crush her under his fist._

_"The past must be paid for!"_

_The Vorpal Blade took care of the second in a flurry of snicker-snacks, slicing it into shreds after a failed attempt to knock her over with a biting blast of fingernail-scraping wind._

_" **Make-believe avenger!** "_

_His tongue_ wasn't _silver as she'd believed, but rather a dripping collection of_ _Ruin_ _sporting yet more of those horrible china faces. Well, perhaps that was more appropriate. Alice assaulted them with Pepper Grinder and Teapot Cannon, exploding into butterflies every so often to avoid another attack from the pinching, mocking hands or the Drifting Ruin floating around the battlefield. The Dollmaker cried fury whenever a head broke, spitting gobs of boiling oil at her and demanding that she lay down and die. "The cost of forgetting is high!"_

_But Alice refused to yield, no matter how many times she was squeezed or slammed or scorched. She hissed under her breath as she accidentally ran into one of the spiky bits of crystallized Ruin dotting the arena (damn those Drifting slimebags!), then swung her Cannon around and sent a fresh volley of tea bombs at the bastard's fanged mouth. She was so close, so very very close. . . ._

_The last gaping porcelain face finally succumbed to her attack, shattering into a million pieces. The Dollmaker reared his head back, wailing in pain. "No! Nooooo!" he screamed as his body writhed and twisted, sliding out from under him without the stabilizing influence of the dolls. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

_And then he was gone, dissolved away into nothing as the Train screeched to a stop. Alice pumped her fist triumphantly, bruised and bleeding but beyond proud of herself. She'd done it. She'd stopped him. Wonderland would live._

_Except. . .she turned back to the pillars to see Victor still hanging from his Ruined web. Oh dear. Her work was not yet done, it seemed. . . ._

London reasserted itself on Alice's senses, the dull grimy walls of Moorgate pushing past the crumbling remains of the Infernal Train. Bumby stood before her, dabbing at his lip with his handkerchief and grumbling to himself. Alice stepped forward, head held high. She'd been frightened of him once – terrified of what he could do to her with his influence and power. But now. . .now the Dollmaker was dead. He had no hold on her anymore. And he never would again. "I'll see you charged," she said, causing him to look up. "In prison, some halfwit bruiser will make you his sweetheart. And then you'll hang." _And it still won't be even half of what you deserve, you abhorrent beast._

To her shock and fury, Bumby smirked. "Indeed? A hysterical woman, former lunatic, roaring outrageous accusations against a respectable social architect and scientist?" He chuckled. "My God, Alice, who would _believe_ you? I scarcely believe it myself."

"They may not listen to me, but they'll listen to Victor," Alice snapped.

"The necrophiliac who claims to have seen the afterlife? I doubt it." Bumby waved a hand toward a shivering ball tucked into a nearby corner. "Besides, do you think he's really in any position to corroborate your story? He's lost in the darkest corners of his mind, and only I can bring him back out." His eyes narrowed as a cold smile crossed his lips. "Do you know how easy it would be for me to tell him to just kill himself?"

How was it that every time she thought she'd reached the absolute limits of her rage, Bumby managed to push her on? "You _monstrous_ creature," she spat, her vision red around the edges, heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Such evil _will_ be punished."

"By whom? By what?" Bumby demanded, straightening his hat and putting his bloodied handkerchief away. "Psychotic, silly bitch – it's your madness that will be punished! If you want Victor to see tomorrow, I recommend you leave. Besides," he added, pulling out his pocket watch again to check the time, "I'm expecting your replacement."

Alice's eyes locked again on the key swinging gently at the end of the fob chain. Sick, twisted crow, how _dare_ he keep a trophy – On a sudden impulse, she marched up to Bumby, grabbed the key, and pulled.

To her satisfaction, it ripped free right away, the aged metal links snapping like they weren't even there. Squeezing it in her hand, she spun on her heel and made for the stairs, preparing to go and – and –

And damn him, he was right, wasn't he? No one would listen to her. She was that broken lunatic from Rutledge, only good for providing _The Illustrated London News_ with the occasional headline; he was a well-regarded doctor, a philanthropist and pioneer in the field of psychology. They'd all just laugh at her – or worse, force her back into his clutches. And Victor was trapped in a nightmare, unable to help her at all, and everyone else who'd seen the depths of Bumby's evil was either mindless or _dead_ –

But he couldn't get away with this. The world was a horrible, cruel place, but there had to be some justice. She would not _let_ him get away with this. She was more than just sad little Alice Liddell who'd lost everything, even her mind. She was a fighter, a survivor, the savior of Wonderland twice over. And now, she was going to be the savior of Houndsditch.

She whirled around, meeting Bumby's eyes as she felt her form shift. Buckled shoes stretched into high boots, black and white cloth faded into vivid blue, ragged hair lengthened into flowing tresses. . . . She saw Bumby's mouth drop open with shock, and wondered if, somehow, he could see the transformation. She certainly hoped so – she wanted him to see, just once, the _real_ her.

She advanced on him slowly, resisting the urge to smile as he moved away from her. His shield of bravado was gone now, leaving a genuinely frightened man – as well he should be. She backed him up right to the edge of the platform, where he teetered for a moment, off-balance. _"Could you kill a fly?"_ echoed in her head, the Dollmaker trying to get in one last shot from beyond the grave.

_I can kill a lot more than that,_ she replied, and used her free hand to give Bumby one good, hard shove.

The startled doctor never had a chance. One moment he was suspended in midair, pinwheeling his arms in a desperate attempt to find his lost footing – the next, he was gone, splatted against the front of an oncoming train. Alice watched the cars whisk by, then looked down at the key resting along her palm's heart line. A bittersweet smile curled her lips. "If nothing else," she whispered, "you've gotten your vengeance."

Of course, there was someone else here who needed a lot more than just the sweet taste of revenge. Slipping the key into her apron pocket, Alice hurried over to Victor. Her friend was still curled into a ball, eyes tightly closed and trembling so hard Alice feared he'd shake himself apart. She grabbed his shoulder. "Victor. Victor!"

Victor's only response was to curl up tighter. Alice dropped down beside him, peering into what little she could see of his face. "Please, Victor, it's me! Alice!"

Victor mumbled something she couldn't make out against his knees. "Victor, please. . .you knew me before. . . ."

"Maybe he'd respond if you called him Thirteen?"

Alice shot Hatter a death glare over her shoulder. The automaton-man held up his hands, looking hurt. "It was only a suggestion!" She huffed and rolled her eyes – trust Hatter to –

Wait. Hatter? In _Moorgate_?

She turned around, making a scan of her surroundings as she did. She was still clearly in the London Underground station. But there was Hatter, standing behind her on the platform like he belonged, along with Caterpillar and the Queen. _All right, it's not like seeing Wonderlanders in London is all_ that _peculiar, but it's usually Cheshire or some random monster who comes to bother me – and the latter generally brings some scenery with it,_ Alice thought, squinting at the trio. _It's not inconceivable they left the Train the same time I did, but why –_

A pained whimper cut through her thoughts, reminding her why she was lingering in the station in the first place. _Figure it out later – Victor needs you,_ she scolded herself, turning back to her friend. He was still muttering to himself, and she leaned in closer to see if she could make it out. "Bad boy bad boy know I'm bad know I'm worthless please stop please stop. . . ."

Alice's fingers tightened on her apron. If only Bumby would come back to life just so she could kill him again. To prey on Victor's worst fears like this. . . . She had to snap him out of it. But how? Bumby had been the one to put him under – was Bumby truly the only one who could bring him back out? Had she just condemned Victor to a never-ending nightmare?

_No, that can't be right. He woke up not ten minutes ago when we were staring at each other! Right after he called me –_ She squeezed his shoulder. "Victor, it's – Mistress," she tried, the word sour on her tongue but still the only thing she could think of.

The trembling stopped. Victor lifted his head, blinking open his eyes. "M-Mistress?"

Alice took his chin and turned him round so his gaze met hers. "I'm here," she whispered, stroking his cheek.

Victor stared for a moment. Then he wriggled around to face her, bringing his hand up to touch hers. "I – it's so d-dark," he croaked. "I c-can't. . .help. . . ."

Alice twisted her hand to interlock their fingers. "No, Victor. The dark's going away. You're not trapped there."

He blinked again. "It's – where. . . ."

"You're in Moorgate Station. With me." She gently tilted his head up. "See the lights? You're safe. No more darkness. No more nightmares."

Victor looked left and right, confusion written all over his features. "But – Master – where's–"

"He's dead," Alice spat, then got a hold of herself. "He's dead and he has no more hold on you. You don't have to obey his commands anymore."

Victor's face twisted up in baffled fright. "I – d-don't – but I – I have to I must obey otherwise I'm a bad boy stupid and worthless and I don't deserve a name–" he babbled.

"No!" Alice seized his hair, pressing their foreheads together. "You do! He's _dead_ , Victor! He can't hurt you! You can wake up! Throw off his control!"

"I – I–"

Her eyes burned into his. "Do it, Victor. Tell me your name."

". . .V-Victor?"

"All of it."

"Victor. . .Victor. . . ." His eyes squeezed shut. "V-Victor. . . ."

"Yes?" she prompted, hoping she didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

They opened again, broken and afraid. "I don't know," he said in a small voice. "He took it away. . . ."

Alice's shoulders slumped. _Damn it_ _. . . ._ "Do you know my name?" she asked, voice catching just slightly.

He probed her face. "Alice," he said eventually. "Alice – I-I know it starts with an L. . . ."

Well, at least he knew her as someone other than "Mistress." "Do you remember anything else?"

"I. . . ." His gaze dropped to the floor. "T-there's a wall. . . ."

"Try. Please," she begged. God, if only she could travel into _his_ head, and fix his pain the way she'd fixed hers. That, after all this, she should be whole and he shattered – it was supremely unfair. "Is this part of my punishment, Caterpillar?" she added over her shoulder.

"I would say part of your atonement," Caterpillar replied, wings beating slowly. "You can't be a savior without someone to save."

Victor screwed up his face, concentrating. "I – my parents – I can't remember their faces, but I do remember their names. . .William and Nell," he said. "And – Victoria – just Victoria. Kind and gentle, with – winter jasmine? Something about vows, a rehearsal of some kind. . . . And. . . ."

He trailed off. "And?" she encouraged.

His face turned heavenward. "Emily," he whispered. "The corpse bride. Bursting into butterflies against the moon. I – I set her free."

"Hmph," the Queen huffed. "Not only was that accursed Dollmaker a monster and a throne-stealer, he was also incompetent. Wasn't this memory the one he was supposed to _erase_?" She rolled her eyes, tapping a tentacle against the ground. "Perhaps he thought he could put it off until next week. Had it on his calendar, most likely: Tuesday – finish wiping the mind of the rich fishmonger's son."

_If you make me laugh, I swear I'll kill you again,_ Alice thought, biting back the giggles that threatened to escape. She ran her thumb along Victor's cheek. "Seems his control was never absolute."

Victor shook his head. "He hurt me," he mumbled. "I d-don't remember what he did, but it h-hurt, and I just wanted the pain to s-stop. . . ." Wetness dripped down onto her hand. "Then he told me to h-hurt you, and I–" He pressed his lips tightly together, as if trying to hold in a sudden flood of emotion. "I'm sorry. . . ."

How anyone could look at that face and not want to just wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup for the next year was beyond her. Lacking either of those components, though, she settled for pulling him into a hug. "Sorry for what?"

"For g-giving in, for b-becoming Thirteen. . . ."

"I don't blame you for that," she assured him, rocking to and fro to soothe him. "You didn't let him have everything. And you fought back when you knew it was important. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me."

"But you were. If you h-hadn't come when you did. . . ." His grip tightened, a lost soul clinging to the one certainty in his life. "You might be the only reason I remember anything at all."

Alice sighed and squeezed back. She was far out of her depth here. She'd barely managed to stop her own mind from being lost to the darkness forever. To be tasked with defending someone else's now too. . . . "I wish I could help you more," she murmured, rubbing circles through his jacket. What was she going to do?

"What you always do," a familiar voice said. She glanced up to see a wide grin hanging in the air, glinting in the light of the lamps. "Look life straight in its metaphorical face and tell it to get out of your way. Of course, gaining an ally in this situation would be beneficial – but for now, perhaps it's best if you return to where people say the heart is."

She smiled faintly. "Good advice as always, Cat." She pulled away from Victor and helped him to his feet. "Come on. Let's go home."

* * *

The first hint she had that things were still not quite right with her was the moss growing around the edge of the exit from the Underground.

Granted, moss was not exactly an uncommon sight in London, especially in places where you got a lot of rain running off and soaking between the cobbles. But this lot looked too – green, honestly. Most plants in the city – certainly the ones in the East End – had a fairly grayish cast to them, courtesy of the ever-present smog. _And it's certainly too cold even for moss to thrive,_ she thought as she led Victor up the steps and out onto the street. _For God's sake, it was snowing when I – I. . . ._

Alice stopped dead just outside the arch, one arm loosely wrapped around Victor's middle, jaw close to hitting the pavement. London had – _changed_. The snow and the black clouds that had birthed it were gone, with no hint that they had ever been. Instead, a blanket of purest summer blue – the exact shade as that found in Cardbridge, in fact – was draped over the city, the sun shining brighter and more cheerily than she'd ever seen. The city itself gleamed in the warm light, every building having gotten a good top-to-bottom scrub and polish –

That is, where they weren't overtaken with greenery. It seemed that, in the wake of the Infernal Train's destruction, the Vale of Tears had not only returned to glorious life, it had also managed to invade England's capital city in its enthusiasm. Broad mushrooms hung over the cobbles right outside the station entrance, sporting caps of white and red and yellow and blue. Multicolored trees burst through the walls of the buildings on either side, reaching their branches toward the sun and heedless of where the brick pierced their trunks. Clear glass marbles nestled in corners, supported by a thin carpet of grass, and large metal jacks twined with the roots of the trees and the spikes of the fences. No matter where she looked, plants and color and sheer unbridled _life_ greeted her. _But – but how?_ she thought, finally managing to close her mouth. _This is – don't I normally – why on earth would Wonderland ever deign to_ mix _with London? Have I finally lost my mind for good?_

"A-Alice?"

Alice swallowed and stood up a little taller. "I'm fine," she reassured her worried friend. She was not going to pile more troubles on his already overburdened head. Whatever the hell this – this _Londerland_ was, she could figure it out later, on her own time. The important thing right now was getting Victor to safety. So long as the real world didn't disappear completely from her senses, she could manage. She smiled encouragingly and pulled him along. "This way."

The walk to the gates of Houndsditch was a short one, easily managed even by an unsteady amnesiac and his hallucinating friend. _It is convenient, having an entrance to the Underground right by your front door,_ Alice had to admit, glancing backward. _I wish they'd finished it earlier – maybe the sound and stink of all those passing trains would have hurried me on my journey. Well, water under the – damn it._

A die stood right between the open gates, bold as brass. Alice glared at it. _Some of us have places to be! Ugh. . .I don't think I can climb it, not without letting go of Victor – and I don't want to do that anytime soon. I guess we could edge around_ –

_Wait a minute. This thing is a part of Wonderland, isn't it? Which means it's not really there and has no business getting in my way._ With a stern frown, she strode right through it, arm still firmly around Victor's waist.

She'd expected to feel _some_ sort of resistance – her brain was, after all, a master at making her life difficult – but nothing. The die let them through without a single complaint, turning semi-transparent as they crossed and fading back into "reality" once they were through. _Hmmm. Interesting._ _Warrants_ _further investigation – later._

The inside of the Home was largely unchanged to her senses, much to Alice's relief. She'd been half-expecting more doll parts everywhere, but her imagination had stopped at simply turning the wallpaper a brighter green. Charlie, Abigail, Reggie, and Elsie were sitting in the middle of the foyer floor, a deck of cards in their midst. "I told you, Aces are better than Kings!" Elsie snapped as the adults entered. "That means I go first!"

"Bull!" Reggie replied, waving his monarch of Spades in her face. "Aces come before Twos! That means _I_ won and _I_ get to go first!"

"That's only in stupid _boy_ games!"

"It's _girls_ who can't count!"

Alice watched the four as they argued, Abigail taking Elsie's side while Charlie tried to convince them to draw again and forget the first round. Well, they certainly seemed themselves. But she had no idea how long Bumby had been picking at their minds, twisting and corrupting. If she interrupted, would they go blank and silent? "Children?"

Four heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes, eyes round. "Alice? You're back?" Abigail said, tone disbelieving. She got up and prodded the young woman's skirt. "But – but Dr. Bumby said you wasn't ever coming back!"

"Dr. Bumby says a lot of things that aren't true," Alice told her, relaxing at last.

"Did the thickies find you?" Elsie asked, squinting at the doorway behind her. "Dr. Bumby told them to go back to Rutledge, but they probably didn't listen 'cause they're so stupid."

"Thickies?" Alice parroted, tilting her head.

"Those big fat orderlies that smelled of wee."

"Oh, God, the Monroes?" She'd _actually_ had David and Lum after her? _My escape was even narrower than I suspected!_

"Nah – you think he'd be with her if they'd got her?" was Reggie's opinion, pointing at Victor. "They would have kicked his head in and left him on the pavement."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "Hello Vi– Thirteen," he hastily corrected himself, wincing as if he expected a blow.

" _Victor_ ," Alice said firmly as the young man beside her shuddered. "You had it right the first time."

Charlie fidgeted, picking at a thread on his sleeve. "But Dr. Bumby says–"

"I don't care what Bumby says. He has a name, not a number." Her gaze dropped to the paper placards hanging around their necks. "And it's the same with you lot! Take those awful things off right now!"

The children scooted away, pale with fright. "But – but Dr. Bumby always gets mad when we do!" Elsie protested, clutching hers like a lifeline.

"Not this time he won't. He's dead."

The group froze. "Dead?" Reggie repeated, staring wonderingly at her.

"He fell in front of a train," Alice confirmed. "I was there when it happened. Stumbled right off the platform. He's not coming back." Face softening, she let go of Victor and knelt down in front of them. "And he'll never hurt you again."

Silence descended, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then Abigail whispered, "N-no more trips? No more meeting those men?"

"Never," Alice promised, reaching out to tuck one of her pigtails behind her ear. "Never ever." She grasped the number resting on the front of the little girl's dress and tore it off. "You're officially Abigail again – not Eleven."

"Eleven. . . ."

Alice's head jerked up. Victor was staring at the placard in her hand, face contorted and hands opening and closing at his sides. "Victor?" She stood up quickly, dropping the paper on the floor. "Something wrong?" Oh no, what if Bumby had left something in his mind, something bad (as if anything Bumby put into one's mind was good)–

"I – he – there was–" Victor pressed long fingers against his temple, gritting his teeth. "It's t-there, I know it is, I just – ah!"

Out of nowhere, he exploded into motion, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran out of the room. The others stared. "What's with him?" Elsie asked.

"I don't know," Alice said, jogging after him. "Victor? What is it?" Damn, she was not in the mood for another fight. . . .

She found him in Bumby's office, yanking open the drawers of the former doctor's desk and tossing papers and pens every which way. "It's here, I know it is!" he said as Alice entered. "He t-tried to make me forget, but I know what he did, I – I–" For a moment, that terrifying blankness passed over his face, but then he shook it off and resumed his search. "He can't have gotten rid of it, he c-can't. . . ."

Alice watched him dump a pile of forms on the desktop, baffled. "Gotten rid of what? What on earth are you looking for?"

"I – ooow. . . ." Victor braced himself against the desk, face screwed up in pain. "K-know I'm being bad, be _still_. . . ." He wrenched open another drawer. "I d-don't know where – oh!" He disappeared for a moment as he bent down, then reappeared holding a simple black box safe. "Might be in here. . .do you have a key?"

"Why would I–" And then Alice took a better look at the lock. It was a thick one, and the shape of the hole. . .but he wouldn't be as – as stupid and horrid to actually design a lock to fit – She drew Lizzie's key out of her apron and studied it. Then, slowly, she walked over and slipped it in.

It was a perfect fit. With a quick twist, the safe clicked open. Alice yanked the key free of the lock, utterly disgusted. Bastard couldn't be satisfied with perverting her sister's belongings in just one way, oh no. . . .

That train of thought was derailed by Victor practically ripping the safe's lid off its hinges. He let out a cry of triumph and grabbed a thin black journal from inside. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "Proof."

Now what did he mean by that? Alice flipped the book open, hoping there wasn't some secret code phrase to rip her will away from her inside. But no, what greeted her eyes were instead long columns and rows of figures. A business ledger? She'd never seen one before in her life, but she guessed it looked right. . . . She turned to the headings along the top: "Children," "Production Costs," "Market Value," "Amount Paid," "Profit–" _And I'm going to be sick all over again._

She turned the pages, marveling in quiet horror at just how many of them he'd managed to fill – and with what high figures. She'd heard Whitechapel called "London's seedy underbelly" before, but this proved it was more akin to the pox-riddled nether regions. And then the table of sin was interrupted by a paragraph of plain text: _"One would not think_ _the adjectives_ _'best' and 'most terrifying' could be applied to the same day, but that is the position I find myself in now with the arrival of Alice Liddell to my_ _H_ _ome. On the one hand, she remains the single witness to my – losing my temper so long ago. (Has it really been a decade? How time flies.)_ _Taking her on as a patient is a terrible risk, and I know it._ _So far, she seems willing to accept the story about her cat and the lamp, but if my therapy fails, and she ever remembers. . .well, a lunatic's word isn't worth much, but I would prefer not to have my personal life scrutinized._

_"On the other. . .she looks so bloody much like Elizabeth. . . ."_

Alice shuddered. As if she hadn't figured out already that she'd been in danger from day one. . .she forced herself to read on, figuring it appropriate punishment for her blindness. The ledger portion of the book dominated its pages, but there were plenty of diary entries to make her glad she hadn't had food in a while. Numerous remarks about the training of the children, comments on those who came to buy (Jack Splatter, to her surprise, was _not_ one of them), complaints about how she wasn't ready for defilement and destruction just yet, twisted romantic musings about her body, and – _"The Van Dorts could have warned me their son was handsome! I'm glad to have controlled myself while they were here, but those eyes, that skin, those_ lips _. . .he must be mine. I'll wipe not only Emily's memory from his head, but all the rest as well. His parents can be dealt with later. If I must do as they ask, at least I don't think they'd object to their newly socialite son keeping a close relationship with his doctor. Why, they might even be grateful! We can't have any slips, after all."_

It took all of Alice's self-control not to fling the book against the wall as hard as she could. As it was, she ended up crumpling a few of the pages under her thumb. _You – you monstrous, cruel, self-important, absolutely deluded – idiot!_

She couldn't help it – she laughed. Anger and horror were in her aplenty, but through them, there was also a bittersweet joy. Yes, the journal was the foul record of a man with no conscience – but it was also concrete evidence of Bumby's wrongdoing. Proof, just as Victor had said. Now the bastard would not even have the satisfaction of knowing his reputation Upstairs was untarnished. Perhaps no one would believe her when she said he'd set the fire – but at the very least, she could get justice for the children. "The _moron_ wrote it all down," she giggled. "Did he really think no one would ever find it?" Though that brought up a new question. "How did you know this was here?" she asked, looking back up at Victor.

"I – I saw it before," Victor said, sporting an unsure little grin. "I don't remember exactly – I was up here for s-some reason, and I saw it on the desk and started reading. And then. . ." The smile faded. "Then he caught me and – and I – I don't deserve a name, I'm a worthless toy, I–"

"No!"

Alice dropped the book and grabbed Victor's arms, her eyes boring into his. " _No_ ," she repeated. "You are _not_. You are a human being. You're Victor Van Dort – and you deserve every syllable of that."

The mask of blankness fled under the force of her assertions. Victor blinked, then dropped his head, face red with shame. "S-sorry," he mumbled, voice watery. "I – it's t-too easy for me to–"

"Shhh." Alice wrapped her arms tight around his fragile frame. "It's all right. I know what it's like to have that – that _thing's_ claws in your mind." She patted his back. "But he's dead now. And you're free. We're free." She pulled back and smiled at him. "We beat him."

" _You_ beat him," Victor corrected, not looking her in the eye. "I s-succumbed to the pain, to his w-words. . .and I remember so l-little still. . . ."

"You made it hard on him – he himself admitted that," Alice replied. "And you didn't forget everything, did you? You remembered Victoria, and Emily. . . ." She brushed a bit of hair out of his face. "And when it was most important. . .you remembered me."

Victor nodded slowly. "Still. . .when – when I punched him – for just a moment I remembered everything," he said, scowling in frustration. "If he h-hadn't kept standing, hadn't spoken, hadn't. . . ." His face crumpled. "Hadn't called me a b-bad boy. . . ."

Alice rubbed his back, guilt twisting her innards. "I wish I'd thought to say something. Actually, I wish I'd been here when he first got you. I wish I'd seen him as some horrible monster and killed him right there and then." She did, too. So what if such an act would have sent her to a Rutledge cell or a hangman's noose? Either would have been worth knowing Victor was safe. "I'm here now, though." She tilted his head so his gaze met hers again. "And I promise I will do everything I can to help restore your mind."

One of those soft little smiles she'd come to love so much finally graced Victor's face. "Thank you."

Alice smiled back. "You're very welcome." She reached around him and picked up the journal. "Now – I think we have a police station to visit." Brimming with confidence, she took Victor's hand and headed for the door. Sure, she had a whole barrelful of problems to deal with – restoring Victor's memories, making sure the remaining children were safe, figuring out just why London was now Londerland and what to do about it. But for the first time in forever, she could honestly believe that everything was going to turn out all right in the end.

After all – if she could defeat both the Queen of Hearts and the Dollmaker – she could defeat _anything_.

The End


End file.
